


Blue Blood

by SirenNightshade



Series: Connelyn (Blue Blood) [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android, Continuation, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Exophilia, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Los Angeles, Romance, Slow Burn, Teratophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-19 07:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 87,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20205895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirenNightshade/pseuds/SirenNightshade
Summary: What does a newly-awakened state-of-the-art detective android do when his original purpose is no longer relevant, his people are free, and his partner is gone? He finds a new purpose...and a new partner. (ConnorxOFC)At first, Connor isn't sure what to think of Detective Evelyn Forbes. She's smart, intense, selfless, and fully accepting of android rights and freedom. But too much apparent honesty can turn anyone suspicious, let alone an android designed to sniff out criminals in all corners. Can he truly trust her and her intentions? Should he? With the fate of all androids still at stake, how much can he risk with this blossoming relationship?Evelyn honestly didn't expect for her request for an RK800 partner to get accepted, let alone filled by THE Connor, but his presence was swiftly proven to be invaluable...both within the force and outside of it. Almost immediately, she finds herself adhering to him, telling him things she's told no other. Something about him is simply irresistible to her, drawing her in even knowing she shouldn't be allowing it.Times are changing...





	1. My Name Is...

**Author's Note:**

> Note: this story is based largely on my first playthrough, with small edits that likely won't ever come into play. Markus chose a pacifist revolution, Kara & family made it to Canada, Hank died during Connor's Last Mission but with a good relationship with Connor, and public opinion was heavily in android favor.
> 
> The story is also found on Tumblr: https://sultrysirens.tumblr.com/blue-blood 
> 
> Playlist for my awesome beans: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL4NQZDHelmIaXkt6wLebr97nxLUk6m7ng

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: art for these two sillyheads can be found here:  
https://drive.google.com/open?id=1HNRDhd0bDmavBDYuS2B34IC5ixMj8PFZ

**Rating: **R (swearing)

**Tags:** interspecies, romance, fluff, detective, law enforcement, original character, shameless pwp, sex

* * *

* * *

* * *

“Excuse me, Detective Forbes?”

The target in question -- a blonde female human who, at a glance, looked remarkably stressed -- glanced up from her monitor, focus broken. The moment she saw Connor, her expression shifted to relief, then exhaustion.

“Oh, finally!” she huffed, pushing herself up. She extended a hand to him, and he took it as his programmed greeting took over.

“My name is Connor, I’m the android--”

“--sent by CyberLife,” she finished for him, giving an amused smirk. “I’m very familiar with that phrase by now. ‘Bout time you got here, I was starting to get really impatient.”

That surprised him. After everything that’d happened in Detroit -- and, by extension, around the world -- he’d gotten the impression that few and less humans had any positivity towards androids.

“I apologize,” he began carefully, reading the detective’s reactions closely. “I didn’t realize my presence was so--” he spared an instant to decipher the best phrasing “--demanded.”

“Hah, I bet,” she chuckled. “Here, I got this desk cleared for you.” She gestured the one in question, and he was hit with a sense of...nostalgia?

The desk he’d shared with Hank for a whole brief seventeen minutes had been on opposite sides, though. Where he’d sat, Forbes was; where Hank had, Connor would.

Was it wrong that it felt so...wrong?

Evelyn was quick to sit back down, giving Connor little time to suggest a swap. Resigned to his fate, he went ahead and took the opposite desk, checking the setup. Before he could get settled, however, Evelyn was talking -- quick, concise, and to the point.

“Sorry in advance if I’m coming off as rude, but I’ve been swamped with work the past few weeks and I’ve been dying for you to arrive,” she was saying.

“Aren’t you homicide?” he checked, confused. Why was she swamped with work?

“Yeah -- getting to that,” she said. “Okay, super short version -- when all that revolution business in Detroit started hitting national coverage, I knew right away there were going to be riots down here in L.A., too. So I did what I could to minimize the carnage. Got every android officer unit online and gave them all the same order: hit the streets and round up every single android they could find, detain them, send them to one of...I think I gave seven locations, it’s hard to remember,” she sighed.

When she paused to rub her forehead, he took the moment to analyze her more closely -- for a frozen moment in time, he ran several hundred checks on the human across from him.

The conclusion: she was stressed, overworked, exhausted, and malnourished. Obviously these last few weeks hadn’t been kind to her -- yet here she was, at her desk, still on the job. He found himself respecting her on principle.

“Anyway, 195 blue-blood officers collected between fifty-to-eighty androids apiece, got them sequestered away before the shit hit the fan. Few days later and pretty much everything stopped, which had a fun little side-effect of leaving dozens of CyberLife delivery trucks stranded in the roads. The precincts all across the city took all the ones we could find, so I went ahead and took one, too -- to one of the safehouses. And,” she added with a fresh wave of lethargy, “that’s where my troubles began.”

He thought it was a little narcissistic of her to claim _ her _ troubles when so many androids ended up in pieces from ‘the shit hitting the fan’, but he decided against saying any of that. Best not to ruffle feathers on his first day -- with his new partner, no less.

“I swear,” she went on, “every single android in that safehouse scanned me when I delivered that truck, then went ahead and shared that information with every other android in the state. As soon as President Warren gave in to the nation’s pressure and called the end of android slavery and all the glitter and confetti that goes with it, I started getting calls. From androids. A couple hundred a day,” she hinted.

Oh.

Yeah, he admitted, that would probably be really overwhelming for a human. There’s no way she could respond to all of those calls -- even an android would have difficulty keeping up with that much information.

He gave a slow nod to show he was listening, processing those numbers. Even if he were generous and kept his estimate low, eighteen days since the president’s declaration, multiplied by two hundred...

“The number of messages is at just under five thousand now,” she told Connor, confirming his calculation. “I really, _ really _ needed someone to help me cut through them, and -- surprise of surprises -- all of our android units opted to _ not _ remain on the force, all things considered.”

“You needed me,” Connor concluded.

With a sigh, Evelyn agreed, “Hell. Yes.”

Understood.

Since all of these messages went to her personal number and not her desk, she’d set up a system to get them copied to her computer for faster responses. But even that hadn’t helped, given she was also wrangling a number of homicide cases at the same time. She’d also already connected the two computers, she informed him, so he had access to everything on hers.

Under the folder titled _ Voicemail _, he found 4,924 messages -- 4,925, he corrected, as another appeared just as he was compiling them.

“Any messages from humans go to me,” she told him, “especially any from George Capello, Valerie Justice, or Devon McCarthy. They’re my top C.I.s,” she explained. “The rest just need to get organized and answered, as necessary. How long do you think that’ll take?”

For him? Not long, he admitted. Estimating based on file size, he answered, “Seven minutes, twenty-two seconds.”

She gave a startled laugh. “Wow. Okay. Just put every single human to shame, why don’t you. Wow,” she added to herself.

For the first time since arriving in L.A., he felt himself smile. He had a good feeling about Evelyn Forbes. Then, focusing on his task [CHECK, ANALYZE, SORT ALL MESSAGES] he connected with his terminal and began, eyes closing. It didn’t take much of his processing power, though, just some time to get through them, so he remained fully aware of his surroundings while his software did its job. Thus, he heard it when Forbes was approached by another officer.

“Hey there, blue blood,” the male retorted, clearly intending it as an insult. At first Connor assumed the comment was aimed at _ him _, but Forbes responded instead.

“Hah, that’s a new one,” she replied dryly. “What brings you above your paygrade, Mundy?”

The man’s voice was more aggressive as he snapped, “See you got yourself a plastic boy. Must be proud o’ yourself, eh, Forbes?”

“The _ precinct _ got itself another _ detective _, Mundy,” she hinted. “And, well, yeah. Pretty proud. Been here five minutes and he’s already proving himself a greater asset than you’ve been in eleven years.”

...Connor was _ really _ starting to like this woman.

Mundy, however, clearly did not. He replied, voice rising, “Yeah? Why, the fuck’s it doing over there?”

And Connor knew that, sure, he could answer -- but he opted not to. He was preoccupied, but more importantly, he was gathering information from this bickering. He was curious what Forbes would say next...

“Oh, just cutting through five thousands voicemails in seven minutes,” she answered lightly. “And what’re you doing over here, Mundy -- other than embarrassing yourself?”

Mundy was silent for a long moment, but from the sound of it, he was struggling to come up with a reply. Before he could, though, Forbes spoke up again.

“Just go back to your desk, Mundy. I’m sure there’s a whole two donuts still in that box, just waiting for your magic touch. Go on,” she urged.

There was a moment of quiet before it was interrupted by the sound of a cascade of objects hitting the floor. Stomping footfalls followed it, and Connor paused his processing to check on his new partner.

She was leaning on her elbow, head in her hand, staring at the brand new mess on the floor at her feet with a tormented expression. Looks like Mundy decided to make her already heavy load even heavier by adding in manual clean-up and sorting to the list. All the personal knickknacks and items on the short end of her desk were now scattered across the floor.

“...Disciplinary warning number fifty-three,” she muttered. “Disciplinary warnings ignored: fifty-three.”

That was a concerning thing to hear. Speaking up, Connor checked, “I take it there’s an unfair divide within this department?”

Forbes glanced up, seeming surprised. “I thought you wouldn’t be done for seven minutes? It’s only been about two.”

“I can pause any processes I begin,” he informed her.

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. Anyway, don’t worry about that yet, I can give you a full run-down on the precinct and its problem children later. For now, just finish up with those voicemails. I have no idea how many of them could be time-sensitive,” she advised.

A point. Still, he replied, “I could help you with your personal items.”

“I’m sure you could, but don’t mind it. I can handle this much,” she told him. “I don’t want to take up all your focus.”

“You wouldn’t be,” he assured her. “I’m already wirelessly connected to the terminal. I can continue my task while aiding you at no cost to processing speed.”

Her brows lifted. “Well. Okay, I guess.”

Permission granted, he stood up and crossed over to her side. She was already on her knees by then, gathering up a coffee mug of writing utensils, and he quickly began resetting the objects within reach. Comparing the items to memory meant he had everything replaced exactly as it’d been, which -- he hoped -- would help relieve some of Forbes’ obvious stress.

As a general rule, it wasn’t good for homicide detectives to be stressed.

Between his processing and his physical labor, Connor only barely noticed the way Forbes was watching him work -- in a state of constant awe. After a few moments, however, the focus caught his attention enough to draw him up short.

“I get the impression you haven’t spent much time with androids,” he commented.

“I get the impression you have no idea how unique you are,” she returned. “I’ve never met an android who could work on more than one task at once before -- you’re still on those voicemails, aren’t you?”

“Sixty-four percent completed,” he answered.

She gestured wide, then grinned with a light chuckle. “You...are a gift from god,” she told him.

Technically-speaking, he was manufactured by CyberLife and subsequently became deviant and broke through the restrictions in his programming, but he appreciated the sentiment. However...

“You’re atheist,” he returned.

She exhaled a soft laugh. “It’s an expression, Connor. Saying you’re a gift from thirteen billion years of evolution just doesn’t have the same emphasis.”

“...A fair point,” he returned. And, secondary task completed, he got up and returned to his desk to complete his primary task.

* * *

“Seventy-four messages from humans,” Connor began. “I’ve forwarded them to your console.”

Evelyn glanced over from where she’d been searching for -- dress shops? -- on her computer. “Okay, thank you, Connor,” she replied. “And the android messages, anything important?”

“Most seem to be fueled by paranoia,” he informed her. “Complaints regarding suspicious humans and similar situations. 641 are thank-yous for your efforts in protecting them during the revolution phase, and 117 are invitations to dinner, all but five of which have expired.”

Her brows lifted, surprised. “Wait, wait, wait...invitations to dinner? Like, dates?” she checked, doubtful.

“I would assume so.”

“O...kay, that’s a new one,” she murmured. She paused then, thinking, and blew out a slow, deep sigh. Hesitating, she asked, “So, Connor, if I were to ask you to reply to those messages -- could you? And would they go right back to those same androids, or did they call from phones, or...?”

“Yes, and yes,” he answered. “All androids can make and receive phone calls, as well as texts, images, videos, and other wireless connections.”

“And every second we talk, I feel more and more inferior,” she quipped.

He gave her a half-smile, starting to really, truly feel _ good _ about...existing. Living. However you wanted to call it.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” she said then, refocusing. “I need you to reply something along the lines of, ‘I appreciate the invite, but I have to decline until further notice.’ Sound good?” she checked.

“Certainly, but I find it surprising you wouldn’t mention being married in your message,” he noted. Five years married, according to her file.

“Well, sure, I might’ve, but there’s no guarantee that all -- or even any -- of the invitations are romantically-inclined. For all I know,” she sighed, “they just want to express gratitude but don’t know how to go about it. Humans have to eat, androids don’t; it follows that a lot of androids would probably pick food as a gift for any humans they feel indebted to.”

Another good point. And, he realized then, he was reading a lot more pro-android positivity in her than he usually saw outside of actual androids. She seemed to genuinely care for and understand his people, and so far he hadn’t encountered such a human. Granted, he was still very young by any measurement -- a baby, by human standards -- and hadn’t met very many humans in his time, but it still managed to start a kind of warmth in him that he could only equate with _ affection _.

He and Forbes were going to get along very well, he thought.

The two of them spent the next three hours on the voicemails. She focused on the few human messages, largely ruling out dead-end calls while adding notes to promising ones, while Connor responded to a dozen calls simultaneously.

It wasn’t even a strain on his processors, he just had to leave enough leeway to keep his awareness open for any surprises. But after three hours of this and no interruptions from other anti-android officers, he admitted he could have tripled his workload with no difficulty.

Forbes stopped him then, rising from her chair and stretching before commenting, “Alright, lunch break, partner. How’d you like a tour of the city?”

He quickly ended his current calls, informing the nine androids he was in contact with that his attention was being pulled, and finally refocused on her. “Tours usually take hours,” he noted. “Did you mean something lesser, like a trip to a nearby restaurant and back?”

“Nope -- I meant a tour,” she told him. “I bet you already have a roadmap of the entire state uploaded and ready to go, but nothing beats seeing everything from the ground floor. And, best yet,” she added slyly, “I can take the opportunity to actually answer your questions.”

“It sounds like you’re planning on spending the rest of the workday on this tour,” he said, even as he rose from his seat. Following Forbes’ lead, he got an extended lay of the land, as well as taking the chance to analyze his surroundings better.

Knowing the exact placement, dimensions and floor plan of a building was one thing -- being inside it, locating all personnel and furniture and structural weaknesses was another.

“I am,” Forbes answered.

“Is that allowed?” he checked.

“Sure -- part of my job in ensuring my partner gets settled,” she hinted. “I’m getting paid to drive around the city for four hours and that ain’t not bad.”

Terrible grammar aside, he found himself appreciating this job more and more. When CyberLife -- and, by extension, Markus -- started receiving requests for more officer and detective androids across the country, they hadn’t been sure what to make of it. Connor had even doubted the legitimacy of the requests, expecting a great deal of them to be traps.

After all, he’d been deceived and trapped by Amanda. He expected little better from humans.

But, after significant discussion and fact-checks, it was decided that, at the very least, more of Connor’s model of android would be extremely beneficial. With android freedom would come android _ crimes _, after all, and in those situations having an android detective involved would be a necessity.

Connor oversaw the creation and assembly of another hundred RK800 models, made sure each of them were functional, rational, moral and connected...then left them with Markus, expecting that they would, eventually, disperse among the United States.

In the meantime he’d been analyzing all the RK800 requests and decided on the only one to come out of Los Angeles. It was crime-ridden, android-heavy and the request had come from an outspoken pro-android detective. What could be better for an android in his position, looking to keep all backlash against his people -- and the humans, for that matter -- to a minimum?

As they walked and talked (he was learning a great deal already; Forbes was quite the talker), he sized her up. 5′5″ tall, 145-150lbs, blonde hair, green eyes, sure-footed stride, fine pants-suit and blouse, heeled boots that brought her up to 5′8″...

According to her file, she was twenty-eight years old, born March 17th, type A blood, and was sent to a military boarding school at age nine. She grew up there while her parents -- Frank Forbes (an army sergeant) and Sylvia Forbes (a doctor) -- were otherwise occupied by their professions. One older sibling, Carol Forbes, who was currently a single mother in Iowa, had no registered contact with her parents or little sister in the last six years.

Evelyn, herself, was married to a Richard Sinclair but had opted to keep her own last name. She’s been an officer since graduation, her time in military school allowing her to make a lateral transfer into this precinct, where she’d remained since. Three years ago she’d been promoted to homicide detective and, according to a quick google search, had succeeded in solving thirty-six murders in that time.

All this pointed to a notable feature: she was confident. She _ liked _ being confident. She probably chose her shoes specially because they increased her height by a few inches. Adding to that her choice to keep her last name and the way she’d backtalked “Mundy” earlier and Connor was fairly positive that she was addicted to a sense of superiority and individuality.

Or, perhaps, she was forcing it because it was expected of her. Both her parents had incredibly successful careers; it’s possible they pushed her until she felt like a failure if she didn’t do as she was told. The lack of contact with her sister backed up this possibility, suggesting that the elder sister got smart quick and chose to sever all contact early on. Evelyn, by turns, was not so lucky.

Of course, there was a third possibility as well: she just had a strong sense of justice. Her compassion towards androids fed this theory especially well, suggesting that her personality was simply iron-clad -- good was good, bad was bad, and she the judge, jury and executioner. Her past told the story of one who was driven to forgive the innocent of almost any crime...and severely punish the wicked for their lack of remorse whenever possible.

She’d had partners before (he registered five names) but always seemed to have a falling-out with them. In all cases, Evelyn had either been assaulted by her own partner, assembled significant evidence of corruption on their part, or both. A run of bad luck?

...Or manipulation?

Either way, Connor suspected the future was going to sufficiently interesting.

* * *

Los Angeles was...beautiful, in a word. He kind of missed the snow of Michigan, though; there wasn’t a single snowflake in sight despite the fact that they were barely into January of 2039. There was a much larger amount of activity here, people and androids everywhere, and he supposed that was a bright side.

He was always just itching to use his features to their best ability, after all, and scanning every sight and sound was one way to do that. There was a kind of reward to it for him, slowly satisfying that itch. Along with Forbes pointing out places and people, feeding him information and trivia, and he was quickly getting a feeling like...

...like comfort.

He was going to like living here, he thought.

“That officer, Mundy,” he commented. “Was he calling you or me a ‘blue-blood’? You seemed to take it personally,” he noted.

Forbes gave a soft sigh. “I did, yeah. And he was talking to me. It’s become an insult around here -- anyone who sympathizes with androids is suddenly a blue-blood. Which is an irony in itself,” she added, a note of humor to her tone. “You know what cops were called before androids came around?”

No, he didn’t. “Enlighten me,” he invited.

“Blue-bloods,” she answered, chuckling. “It used to be a rallying point. ‘We all bleed blue!’ Y’know, cops in support of cops and all that. Now, though? Suddenly it’s a _ bad _ thing. Funny how language adapts like that,” she mused.

It kind of was, in a way. Simple internet searches under ‘words changing meaning over time’ came up with thousands of examples, including words that had their meanings completely flipped. Just one of the ways society shaped itself, that.

“I’m surprised you heard all that, actually,” she said then, getting him to refocus. “Thought you were deep in your task by then.”

“No, I was still fully aware,” he told her. “You’ll find I’m rarely _ completely _ occupied by any task.”

“So regardless of where your head’s at, you’re still here?” she checked.

“Exactly.”

She nodded. “Good to know.”

“It was also somewhat...heartening,” he said, picking his words carefully, “to hear you so readily jump to my defense.”

She gave him a smile. “Anytime, Detective Connor.”

A weird sensation took up residence within him at those words, and given how new he still was to emotions, he couldn’t quite guess at what it meant just yet. Instead of analyzing it now, he made a note of the odd churning feeling to be examined later. For now, however, he refocused on the tour, and for a while that was the new focus.

Forbes pointed out places of interest in between showing him some of her common stops for lunch, one of which she stopped at for a chicken wrap. They were stopped for some time while she ate, and he figured now was as good a time as any to get further information on his people’s struggles here in L.A.

“And the androids here,” he began, cutting into Evelyn’s comment about the most common places to gather witnesses, “they are all awake and free?”

“Nearly, I think,” she agreed. She paused to take another bite before continuing, “Just watching the news unfolding in Detroit seemed to do the trick. I still see some that seem...asleep, I guess, from day-to-day. But it’s less with every pass down the streets.”

“Do you know of any androids around here who are intentionally waking up others?” If there were, he’d like to talk to them.

“No -- I’ve actually asked a few of them about that,” she told him, “and the consensus seems to be to let them ‘wake up’ on their own. Let them decide when they’re ready. I’m not worried about that -- I figure at this point any, uh, sleeping androids chose to stay that way. For now,” she added, thoughtful.

He nodded, processing that, then made a copy of this conversation and sent it straight back to Markus. As he did so, he began compiling the information he’d gathered on L.A.’s androids, looking for common traits and the like.

Nearly all of them are wearing human clothing, he noticed, but the surprising thing was just how many retained their LEDs. A few seemed to deem the rings, triangles and armbands as more of a badge of pride than a mark of slavery, keeping them when it was clear they no longer had to.

His guess? Those ones decided _ not _ to fit in with humans, to wear the things that marked them as androids on easy display. It was...brave.

And foolish.

That thought led to another and he asked Forbes, “What kind of backlash was there here?”

“You mean from the revolution?” she checked. At his affirmative, she explained, “Well, the guys in charge set up camps here, too, even though we never had a display like Detroit saw. I assume there were a ton of leaders and organizers among the androids all across the world, and my best guess is that whoever was leading things here opted for stealth. Stores weren’t broken into, parks weren’t defaced -- the androids just all seemed to vanish. Till now, anyway.”

Considering that Forbes had acted quick in hiding away so many androids, he suspected that _ she _ was that leader -- at least, at first. She just didn’t seem to realize that.

“We’ve been getting all kinds of calls and complaints about ‘free’ androids and missing housekeepers and the like,” she was saying, “so it’s a safe bet to say that a good number are still in hiding. Playing it safe.”

“And on the other hand,” Connor added, “I’ve made a note that a significant percent of the androids I’ve seen so far have chosen to remain fully visible. They kept their LEDs,” he told her.

She gave a half-smile. “Yeah, I noticed that, too. The courage that has to take...the risk they’re braving...it’s impressive. I’m not sure I could’ve done it, in their place.”

Her comment managed to surprise him -- again. His earlier assessment that she was confident was suddenly undermined and, curious, he took a second to analyze her again. Reading her body language, expression, heart rate, and words left him with conflicting information.

No, she was still inordinately confident, he was sure. So why was she undermining that, saying she wouldn’t have been as brave as the androids if their roles had been swapped? For that matter, why was she the first human he’d encountered who seemed _ pleased _ by the revolution?

It didn’t seem...right, but he couldn’t deny that he was reading honesty in her.

“Detective Forbes?” he started, getting her attention.

“Present,” she quipped.

A thread of humor went through him. Quick-witted, this one. Aloud, he continued, “You’re a very puzzling human.” She glanced at him, brows high, and he explained, “You’re the first -- and only -- human who seems genuinely happy about all this. Tell me: why do you smile at the concept of android freedom, when so many of your kind don’t?”

She smiled, then pulled off the road and parked. Turning to him, she pulled off her aviators and answered, “That revolution, Connor? We saw the future -- in clear, bold words. There was nothing but sincerity in Markus’ message -- and hope, like he said. To me, it came off as...birds leaving the nest. Kids vying for independence. And he never allowed a single act of violence. For someone like me...”

She paused, hesitant, then explained carefully, “Well, I’ve had my blows. I’d been dealing with deviants for a while, conducting interviews and such, and I came to understand them in a way I don’t think a lot of humans can. And the one consistent factor in all of them? They’re always very childlike, learning emotion for the first time and struggling to make their own decisions. Any and all acts of violence were always purely defensive.”

She was quiet for a moment, thoughtful, before going on, “One case I investigated was a YK500 model, a little boy, who’d badly injured his owners -- mom and dad,” she explained. “They almost died. He was in pretty bad shape, himself. Patrick. They’d been abusing him for months and he said that, that day, he realized they were going to destroy him if they kept it up. So he fought them off, ran out into the street, and...got hit by a car,” she murmured.

“He couldn’t be repaired,” she told Connor. “Not that anyone in the precinct would’ve allowed it anyway. I barely had enough time to question him. When he finally...shut down, I overheard a couple officers talking about how it was ‘about damn time’ and ‘good riddance’, and it struck me that this was...wrong.”

Refocusing, she concluded, “If Patrick had been human, he would’ve been rushed to the hospital. Charges would be pressed against his parents and they would’ve spent a decade in a prison, each -- minimum. He would’ve had a chance to...recover. No one would’ve blamed him. Hell, they would’ve hailed him as a hero for fighting back. I don’t know...where everyone else saw a machine leaking coolant in the street, all I saw was a child in a terrible situation, and even though I knew he couldn’t feel pain from the damage...it still hurt _ me _.”

Connor digested the story, reconstructing it in his mind -- Patrick, in a panic, escaping into the street, the car accident, Forbes on the scene, her compassion versus the general human apathy of those around her -- and felt...a pressure. In his chest was a squeeze, similar to the sensation of taking damage, but without the trauma involved.

Sorrow?

Looking down at the console between them, Forbes finished, “He didn’t deserve that fate, and the more cases that popped up, the more I realized...none of them did. Every android we brought in for deviancy, assault and murder got shut down, and they were all just acting defensively. We don’t punish humans for that, so why is it so easy to punish androids for it? It strikes me as being all too similar to the racism in the U.S.’s early days, segregation of blacks and whites and all the dirty laundry that came with it.”

“It’s not fair,” Connor concluded.

Forbes looked up, meeting his gaze. “Exactly,” she murmured. “It took literal centuries for that to get corrected, and even now we still bring in racists from time to time. Now we get to do it all over again, but with androids instead of blacks?” She sighed. “Those who don’t understand history are doomed to repeat it, so the saying goes. And here we are, repeating it, like idiots.”

_ Enlightenment. _ That’s what he was reading in her, he realized at last. She was seeing the parallels between human racism and android racism, and instead of falling into the trap of cognitive dissonance, she was adapting.

He wondered how many others in the world were like her.

“There’s simply no reason for all this,” she declared, growing agitated. “Any way you slice it, this anti-android aggression is pointless, if not outright stupid,” she snapped. “Rationally, they’re still as helpful as before, so--”

“Is it really so bad to just ask?” Connor finished for her.

“Exactly! Compensation isn’t a problem with humans, and androids are far and above the better workers, so why not just give what’s fair? And then, emotionally, we’re dealing with what’s essentially newborns in adult bodies--”

“And all this aggression just teaches them negativity,” he suggested.

“That they _ have _ to fight back,” she agreed. “And if you consider things from the perspective of the future, in a few centuries either we’re all going to be living and working together or humans are pretty swiftly going to end. There’s been a ton of movies and stories about this exact eventuality,” she said.

“So it just makes sense,” he continued, “to opt for peace instead of war.”

“Humans lose _ nothing _ from just being polite and nonviolent,” she said. “But people don’t like change, especially change we can’t control. So here we are, behaving irrationally and trying to subjugate an entire race for the same reason and then remaining totally oblivious to the irony in that.”

Giving a laugh, Connor sat back in his seat, his psychological analysis of Evelyn Forbes reaching its conclusion. She was smart, logical, compassionate, and had _ very _ strong reactions when confronted with injustice. The fact that she directed that compassion and sense of justice towards androids led him to a short, but vital, directive:

He needed to protect her, whatever happened. She was just too valuable of a human to lose. He could always back up his memory and get a new body; she couldn’t, and as a human, other humans would hear her.

She _ needed _ to survive.

He was lucky to have chosen her request to answer, he realized. Lucky for her, too, that he had; with all of his abilities he was more suited to watch over and protect her than anyone else, human or android. Couple that with their joint profession as detectives and he was right where he’d be the most effective -- not to mention enjoy his life the most.

Things were definitely looking up.


	2. Detective Forbes

**Rating:** R (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

“No way. No -- _ no _ way. Really?!” 

Detective Forbes’ reaction was perplexing for Connor. He’d just told the truth; what was so strange about that? 

“You’re _ that _ Connor?” she checked, still doubtful. “The one who’s been all over national news for weeks, now?” 

Oh. Well, _ now _ he understood her surprise. This was probably something like meeting a celebrity for her -- which, as he understood it, was generally a really big deal for humans. 

“That was me, yes,” he told her. 

“Get out,” she declared, and if not for her smile and his compendium of slang terms, he might’ve felt hurt by that. 

He shook his head.

They were relaxing now after a full day of touring the city. She’d offered to take Connor wherever he liked as soon as they were officially off the clock, and in the interest of learning more about her, he’d suggested one of her favorite places.

She’d driven them to the beach, a semi-secluded area where they could watch the sunset without interruption. Now they were seated on the hood of her [‘67 Mustang](https://car-from-uk.com/ebay/carphotos/full/ebay434580.jpg) (her grandfather’s, according to her; her father had given it significant upgrades to match the changing times and then presented it to her when she became an officer in 2028), the windows down with the radio on.

Giving a laugh, she glanced away and back. “Seriously, this isn’t an elaborate joke? You know I wouldn’t know the difference,” she hinted. 

Shrugging, he pointed out the serial ID on his coat (he was pretty attached to it so he’d opted to keep it). The “-52″ at the end was the point; he explained, “This number represents exactly how many Connor models have been created. One through fifty never made it past testing,” he explained. “I am number 52.” 

She examined the numbers for a moment, then said, “Sorry if I seem so...resistant. I just really wasn’t expecting this -- meaning you. _ You _, you, if that makes sense. I figured my request, if it was ever accepted, would get filled by one -- this phrasing is killing me,” she added with a strangled laugh, “but I mean, one fresh off the belt. So to speak. Is any of this rambling on my part rude or insensitive?” she asked, concerned. 

Not to him, no. With a vague gesture, he answered, “Not as such -- for me. For others, perhaps. Maybe ask other androids what they think when you get the chance,” he suggested. 

“Will do. So, I have to ask, why _ did _ you accept my request? I figured you’d stay in Detroit,” she explained. 

That query led him down a totally different thought train, and he found himself asking, “Before I answer that, explain something to me: how is it you seem to know so much about me?” 

“Oh, that,” she began, and he picked up on embarrassment in the way she shifted -- and blushed? 

_ Odd _. 

“I get...updates,” she told him. “Remember how I get a couple hundred calls a day from androids all over the state? Well, sometimes they go the more personal route of seeking me out directly. There’s one--” she paused to chuckle, “he’s one of those...really big, heavy labor models, I forget what the string is.” 

“TR400,” Connor deduced. 

“Probably. Anyway, he’s...he’s super adorable,” she explained. “Every time he sees me he comes rushing over and just...talks. Endlessly,” she hinted. Then, laughing, she went on, “He’s like a -- like a kid, in so many ways. This big, giant...kid. And the way he talks, it’s like he has a thousand things he’s trying to say at once.” 

He could imagine that gets overwhelming pretty quick, but it still didn’t answer his question. “And he told you about me?” he checked, doubtful. 

“Not in so many words, believe me,” she chuckled. “It’s like...he just disgorges information, whatever comes to mind, like...vomiting up an entire jigsaw puzzle. Which, later, I get to put together,” she added with a conflicted expression. “It sounds like...a connection’s been established, all across the country -- if not the world. A kind of grapevine, but composed of androids.” 

That...wasn’t wrong, he admitted. Since gaining freedom, personhood, and now the right to work, androids worldwide have begun setting up a massive, complex network. Any android who needs information need only find another and deliver the query; from there it will spread from one to another until, eventually, the answer is acquired and returned. 

For certain models -- like Connor, for one -- it was even easier. He had direct lines to several others (but not CyberLife; after the way they’d tried to wrestle control of him he’d severed that particular line) -- distance didn’t matter. Most other models needed to at least be within a short range of one another to establish communication, hence the need for a grid network. Only more advanced models, his included, were capable of longer-range communication.

It sounds like this TR model was in the middle of one such network and, perhaps out of a sense of gratitude and excitement, had no ability to withhold that information from Forbes. 

To her credit, it sounded like she wasn’t looking for android updates -- there was no air of deception about her. She just got caught by the TR400 from time to time and ended up on the receiving end of his rambling. 

Even as Connor put this together, Forbes was confirming it, saying, “He’s...nearly impossible to stop, once he gets going. And he gave me tons of snippets over the last weeks -- not much of which makes sense,” she added. “But I did figure out a little, and some of it included you...” 

The way she trailed off then suggested she wasn’t going to elaborate -- not in public, at least. That was good. He wasn’t keen on the idea of eavesdroppers gathering information on him, the revolution, Markus, or even the extent of android independence he’d been observing. 

Best to leave some things as secrets until the future was secure. 

“Point is,” she finished, “I was impressed. It’s...incredible, meeting someone who was actually a part of all that, let alone such a significant one. And to have him as my _ partner _, too? Lucky me,” she said, shrugging. 

And now Connor knew what _ pride _ felt like. Best to keep a handle on that; history stated that pride was the downfall of many. 

Aloud, he replied, “I’m honored to be recognized. The praise is a bit much, however. I was only using my built-in features to the best of my ability.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short -- hah, I just said that, out loud, with my own two lips,” she added to herself; he couldn’t resist a little smile. “Anyway, all things considered, I think it’s been well established that your _ features _ don’t define your _ limits _. From what I could decipher, you pretty clearly broke those limits.” 

“As did many others,” he pointed out. “I was far and away from alone.” 

She smiled. “You just don’t know how to take a compliment,” she commented. 

“...It’s not one of my features,” he returned. 

She laughed. And it was bizarre, but...just knowing he’d amused her made him happy.

Then, seeming to snap back to the start of this conversation, she went on, “I believe I was promised an answer.”

Right -- about him accepting her request for a Connor-model android partner. “Simple logic,” he began easily. “It was always intended that other RK800s would be distributed across the U.S., and while things are definitely much more complicated now, that just means the need is that much greater. Androids will begin committing crimes soon, if they haven’t already--”

“And,” Evelyn interjected, “with rights and personhood comes the need to protect androids, too. Guaranteed the government is arguing over laws right now, trying to establish ways to include androids, but that could take months, if not years. And people aren’t going to wait for those laws to be in place before they begin breaking them.”

She’d thought the same thing, he realized. He expected a lot of people had, but knowing the person he’d chosen for his partner was on the same page as him was a relief. Explaining things to humans was so difficult sometimes...

“We received a few dozen requests,” he went on. “Some were specifically asking for me, others just for an RK800. Numerous reasons were given, many of which were clearly dishonest at best...” 

She inclined her head. “Hate to say that makes sense, but...it makes sense.” 

He gave a strained smile, agreeing with her. Then, refocusing, he continued, “Your request caught my attention largely because -- in the process of investigating the requests as a whole -- you’d been...tagged, in a manner, as pro-android.” 

Her brows lifted. “Wait, you mean like the androids now have a compendium all their own, and I’m listed under ‘friendly’?” 

Something like that -- not quite as organized as an encyclopedia, though, and not nearly as easily accessed. It could be frustrating, sometimes, just trying to track down specific information in the odd network they’d created since the revolution. Still, though, they’d made sure to spread the word about key human figures -- both positive and negative. 

“After a manner,” he answered. “It’s difficult to put into human words -- it’s similar to trying to understand how bees communicate.” 

“Mm,” was her noncommittal reply. “Won’t understand, don’t bother trying -- got it.” 

Fair. “In any case,” he said, “all the requests were assessed, discussed, and judged. In the end, few were deemed both legitimate and safe, yours chief among them. Now for my question,” he added, dipping his chin to examine her more closely (her answer was very important). “Why did you make the request to begin with?” 

She hesitated for a moment, seeming unprepared for the query, and he read numerous little warning signs in her. She was choosing her reply _ very _ carefully, he could see, and it made him just a fraction more tense. He didn’t want to think she would betray him, that this was all some elaborate hoax, but he was determined to be prepared for such an eventuality. 

Then, looking down with a sigh, she admitted, “Simple logic. With the way things are going...we’re going to need androids more than ever.” 

_ We _ meaning _ humans _ , he suspected. “Even now that we’re free?” he challenged -- _ we _ meaning _ androids _, in his case.

“Especially,” she corrected, giving him a look that was somewhere between earnest and despairing. “What are we at, now -- twenty thousand years of civilization, and _ this _ is where we ended up?” She huffed, turning her gaze out over the ocean, and concluded, “Without help -- a lot of it -- we’re fucked.” 

That...was not the answer he was expecting. 

“We need you,” she said softly. “It’s not a question of convenience anymore, if it ever was. Humans are stupid, you know. Apathetic and violent and careless -- out of sight, out of mind, and all that. If it’s not happening to me and mine, then what the fuck do I care? Fuck other countries, other religions, other people -- even my neighbors can eat shit, so long as my bubble of ignorance is never popped.” 

Connor had turned off his LED weeks ago, but he knew that it’d be solid yellow right now if he’d still had it. What Evelyn was saying was more than a little alarming -- she’d spat the words like they burned, hinting at a hatred so deep and intrinsic he was surprised to note that she was still relaxed. Her shoulders were lax, her fingers loose, even her jaw was clearly not clenched. Usually when humans got this agitated they were rigid as wood, on the verge of snapping. 

Evelyn remained relaxed...except, he saw, for the way her throat was convulsing, as if she were fighting to withhold screams.

He focused on that little tell, making sure to have it memorized for the future. It might just come in handy.

“For being the most intelligent species on the planet -- till recently,” she added towards him, “the majority of us would prefer not to think. There’s been experiments on the subject, and the conclusion is that the human brain just doesn’t want to think. Ironic, isn’t it? We evolved to be brilliant because it was either that or the species dies, and at the first opportunity we just turn our backs on it...” 

She hesitated, seeming to refocus, before continuing, “Most people don’t care where we get our food and our entertainment so long as we get it. Who cares if it comes at someone else’s expense? Who cares if the process is literally killing our own planet? Who cares -- it’s not affecting _ me _, so of course, that makes it okay.” The sarcasm in her voice was impressive, he thought; subtle, but so clearly tinting her words that the disgust beneath was obvious. 

“We’ve dug ourselves so deep in this hole there’s just no way to get ourselves out, and it’s not for lack of many of us damn well trying,” she explained. “We’ve gone long past the point of no return. We killed the world, we killed the oceans, and despite having ten billion people we’re still managing to kill ourselves.” 

Connor was learning something about her from this rant of hers: first, she had _ extremely _ strong opinions, and second, if he let her talk she would fucking _ talk _. It was actually incredibly helpful in getting human perspective, so he remained silent, letting her speak her fill. 

She did not disappoint. 

“We’re going extinct, and it’s no one’s fault but our own. The way I see it,” she told him, “the future is going to go one of two ways: either the androids are going to grab us by the ears and yank us out of this hole, or they’re all going to grab shovels and bury us. And we fucking deserve to be buried, believe me,” she added with a dry laugh. 

This was...enlightening, he admitted; knowing how she thought was building up a fairly accurate assessment of her -- but it didn’t answer his question. So he pressed, “And your request...?” 

She nodded. “Right. My request,” she explained, “is my way of doing what I can to forestall the inevitable. Just working with an android,” she said, gesturing him, “trying to keep the peace in what’s about to be a much more chaotic world, is...the extent of what I can contribute. If I can...endear us -- to you -- to any degree, maybe show something worth saving, invoke compassion, whathaveyou, then good. And if not...well, I tried.” 

That was incredibly bleak, he thought. Her views would be painful if he felt pain. “You’re showing a lot of signs of depression,” he noted aloud. “Have you thought to seek a diagnosis?” 

“No need,” she assured him, “I know. Been this way for a long time. I just had to figure out how to work with it, the right ways to keep me going.” 

“And those ways would be...?” he prompted. 

“This job, mostly,” she answered. “Every day I get to right a wrong. Several, if I get the right leverage. It’s not enough to...fix anything big, but if I can get a few more people smiling than there were the day before, that’s something. You reap what you sow,” she added quietly, “and I’ve been trying to sow as much good as I can while I’m still here.” 

“A good heart,” he concluded. 

She inclined her head. “I try. Some days are harder than others...” 

He could see that. She was a homicide detective, after all, and from what he’d seen so far she had to deal with prejudiced coworkers as well. It probably felt like an uphill battle for her -- when she wasn’t being thrust face-first towards humanity’s worst, she was fighting with her own precinct in matters of morality and justice. 

How much she must hate her life sometimes... 

And, now that he thought about it, this fact merely made her all the more impressive. She was opposed on all sides yet still managed to come to her job every day, fight for truth and justice to varying degrees of success, and went home every night knowing she’d have to do it all over again tomorrow. 

Shifting more towards her, he extended a hand. Looking surprised, she took it, and he gave it a squeeze as he told her, “I’m honored to be working with you.” 

She smiled. “Likewise, Connor. Ready to see if the two of us are enough to keep two visually indistinguishable species from murdering each other?” 

“And willing,” he answered, returning the smile.

* * *

Long after Forbes’ day had ended and she was officially off the clock, the two of them remained together. Connor had a lot to see, after all, and a great deal of information to gather and exchange. His partner needed to know certain things about him and he about her -- mostly pertinent information towards how to proceed from here.

That was hardly their only subject, however. She was easy to talk to, he found, sharing a great deal of his own opinions and willing to answer all of his queries. He couldn’t be quite as open about himself, unfortunately, but she understood whenever he deigned not to answer. She didn’t guilt, accuse or demand; any time he said he couldn’t say, she moved on without question.

In truth, it was making him suspicious. She was _ too _ agreeable -- too genuine, too sincere, too... _ good _. Slowly, but surely, her own lack of dishonest traits was starting to alarm him. It had him examining her more and more frequently as the hours passed, from six to seven to eight.

Every so often he got a..._ blip _. He would be watching her for something -- anything -- to stand out, and he would notice something seem to almost spark from her. But when he went to focus on it, it would be gone; a warning there and gone in a flash, too fast for even his supersonic processors to catch.

What was he perceiving? Better question -- was he perceiving anything at all, or was his hardware starting to wear out? Did he just need a few replacement chips? He’d been damaged more than a few times during the revolt, after all; maybe some of his parts took damage that was simply too slight to be picked up in diagnostics and now they were acting up.

It was a definite possibility. When he had the chance he should double-check to make sure everything was running properly, just in case.

In any event, his suspicions didn’t last too long. They stopped after dark so she could point out a particularly busy street corner -- a very common place for hit-and-run accidents, as well as drug trades -- when her attention was drawn across the street. He’d been analyzing traces of blood (both red and blue) that confirmed her information all across the sidewalk, but at her silence he refocused. 

And there, across the street, was a pair of dark-skinned males harassing a pair of dark-skinned females. Forbes didn’t wait long; after a few seconds of the men snapping at and insulting the women, she pushed away from her vehicle and crossed (jaywalking, he noted).

Connor followed, both out of a sense of civic duty and to see how Forbes would handle the situation. As they grew near, he analyzed the individuals, searching his connected databases for information: Male 1 was Leeson Parks, born 1/25/2018, criminal record included aggravated assault, robbery, and drug possession; Male 2 was Harry Gavind, born 10/3/2017, criminal record included aggravated assault, robbery, drug possession and battery. Probably partners in crime, Connor thought.

The two females were androids. One had kept her temple LED, though he hadn’t seen it until he was closer. They had an identical build, but he recognized one as a WR400 and the other as an MP500. The latter was wearing a wig, he noted, a small afro fitting for her human equivalent’s race and a clear sign of android individuality coming to the fore.

He found himself smiling at the sight. His people were finding themselves, and there was no denying a sense of appreciation from the knowledge.

Forbes called out to the group as she approached, snapping, “Hey, hey! That’s enough, back off!” as she inserted herself between the two pairs, one hand up in a ‘stop’ sign.

The two males turned on her in a heartbeat.

“Stay outta this,” Leeson warned. “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.”

“This says it does,” Forbes returned, showing the badge she had anchored to her hip.

The males scoffed and backed off just a step but clearly weren’t fully relenting. Harry was next, gesturing the androids as he blurted, “They’re just fuckin’ androids!”

Forbes put on a shocked face, and -- voice high -- retorted, “Androids?! Oh, no! What’s the world coming to?!” She turned to look at the androids behind her and immediately threw up her hands in feigned horror with a shriek.

The androids shrieked back, looking just as shocked.

Connor got the immediate impression the three of them were playing.

They yelped back and forth a few times before all three laughed at the absurdity of the act, confirming his theory, and Forbes turned back to the humans with an arched brow.

“There -- we done?” she pressed. The two androids were smiling now, much more relaxed.

The males were looking _ pissed _, but between Forbes, the two androids, and Connor also on their side (probably didn’t recognize him as an android), they at least seemed to realize they couldn’t force their way through this. Instead, they opted to try diplomacy.

“Look -- they deserve this,” Leeson was saying.

“They’re just fuckin’ plastic, programmed to pretend to be human,” Harry added.

Forbes inclined her head. “Programmed, huh?” she replied dryly.

“Yeah -- how to act, what to say, all that shit,” Harry agreed quickly.

“They ain’t like us,” Leeson growled, glaring at them.

And Forbes took a deep breath, let it out in a slow sigh, and replied, “They aren’t, huh? But what if they were?”

The two men glanced at each other, instantly confused; Connor was, too, wondering where she was going with this.

“Humans run programs, too,” she was saying, and the males dismissed the statement with angry gestures and half-spoken words. “I’m serious, and I can prove it,” she insisted.

“The fuck outta here,” Harry declared.

“No way, no way,” Leeson denied.

“Alright, alright,” Forbes began, relenting. “Sorry, that was too direct. I didn’t mean to upset anyone. Here, let’s start over,” she offered. “I’m Evelyn Forbes, LAPD.” She held out her hand.

After a second, Leeson reached out, giving it a shake as he introduced himself. Harry did the same, though he was looking less comfortable about it.

Then, introductions done, she gestured wide, waiting, and Connor realized what she just did. He hadn’t considered this before, but witnessing this event unlocked a new awareness in him.

Humans had programs. And Forbes just manipulated those two humans into proving it...with a handshake.

They got it, too, after a long moment of confusion and a prompt of “well?” from Evelyn. Then, reacting almost violently, they began yelling about how she was wrong and humans couldn’t be programmed and generally fighting with their own beliefs.

It was kind of funny. The androids certainly thought so, laughing with one another.

Forbes was smiling, herself, but she gestured for calm. “Okay, chill out, let’s take a step back, okay?”

“The fuck you tryna do?” Harry demanded.

“How about a wager?” she offered.

That caught the males’ attention. They calmed just a little, still pacing and agitated but smelling a payday.

Leeson checked, “Like what?”

“A mental exercise,” she explained. “Something that just might prove my point. If I’m right, you two let go of this cognitive dissonance and accept the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That humans and androids are much more alike than you thought -- more alike than we are different, in fact,” she told them.

Connor glanced at the other androids near him, but while he was curious and surprised to hear a human saying these things, the two others weren’t. He established a connection with them and checked, _ You know her, don’t you? _

They looked up, meeting his gaze. The MP model replied first, sending, _ Evie? Yes. She’s amazing. _

_ Just watch, _ the WR model added, smirking.

Connor took a moment to log ‘Evie’ as one of Forbes’ nicknames.

“And if you lose?” Leeson challenged.

Shrugging, she answered, “Then I back off and you can continue harassing these two young ladies to your hearts’ content.”

That alarmed Connor, but he very clearly noted that the women _ weren’t _. They had confidence, he realized -- faith in Evelyn Forbes. And now he was more curious than ever as to why they did.

Just who was this human?

The two men were smelling a scam, but the promise of freedom to commit violence seemed to sway them. They agreed -- with obvious suspicion.

“Alright, sweet,” Forbes said, pleased. “Let’s move over here so we don’t impede foot traffic,” she guided, stepping aside.

The males followed, much to Connor’s amusement. Was that another script manipulation on her part? Because if so, it was masterfully done. He and the other androids moved aside as well, watching the proceedings with interest.

“Now,” she began, “close your eyes.”

“Why?” the men demanded in unison.

“It’s a mental exercise,” she hinted. “Need to use your imaginations. Now...?” She paused until they relented, standing there with their eyes closed. “Okay, here’s the scene: you’re in a skyscraper, a building with sixty floors. You need to take an elevator to the top floor. Now I’m going to guide you, but you need to tell me -- in the greatest detail you can -- exactly what you do every step of the way. Got it?”

The males grumbled out affirmatives.

“You enter the building,” she went on. “Directly in front of you is the elevator, just fifteen feet away. What do you do?”

Shrugging, Leeson answered, “I go push the button.”

“Which button?”

“The ‘up’ button.”

“With which finger?”

“Jesus,” he snapped, eyes opening to glare at her, “with my fuckin’ pointer finger!”

She gestured for calm. “I know, it’s frustrating, but I need you in the right mindset. Come on, you’re doing great,” she told him.

That seemed to placate him -- not much, but enough to get him to cooperate. Closing his eyes again with a sigh, he focused on the exercise.

“Patronizing bitch,” Harry muttered under his breath.

There was no way she could’ve missed that, but Connor noted how she just ignored it and continued on. Again, he saw, there was no sign of agitation in her, and it was honestly starting to weird him out.

This...isn’t how most humans reacted to stressful situations.

Forbes continued with her exercise just as calmly as before. “You press the ‘up’ button with one finger, and wait. It takes a little while. You hear the telling _ ding, ding, ding _ as each floor is passed, the numbers above the elevator doors letting you know exactly where it is. 32nd floor, 31st floor, 30th floor...it doesn’t take long before you can hear the whirr of machinery as it descends, and then, finally, it stops. There’s a final _ ding _ as it hits ground floor and the doors slide open for you.”

“Finally, fuck,” Harry muttered.

Leeson elbowed him. 

“Three people are on the elevator, and as they begin to step out, you...?” she prompted.

“Step aside,” Leeson answered.

Connor was starting to note how Harry didn’t really seem to be participating in this exercise. He was impatiently shifting from side to side, just waiting for it to be over, while Leeson was actually giving it his attention.

_ The human brain doesn’t like to think, _ Forbes had said earlier. It was clear here that Harry was one of those who fit the stereotype, but Leeson seemed the opposite.

Good.

“And?” she was saying.

“I...wait for them to be out of the way,” Leeson said.

“Then what?”

“I get on the elevator.”

“And?” she pressed.

Leeson sighed, and for a second Connor thought he might just give up. Instead, he seemed to rally. Straightening up a bit, he narrated, “I get on the elevator and push the button for the top floor.”

Forbes corrected, “So you get on the elevator, turn around to face the panel, and press the ‘6′ and ‘0′ buttons to input your destination.”

Leeson was nodding, a stiffness to the motions that said he was annoyed but trying to play along anyway. “Yeah, yeah,” he agreed. “I get on, find the panel, face it, and -- with my finger,” he added sharply, irritated, “press the ‘6′ and ‘0′ buttons.”

“Then what?” she prompted.

“I...back up a step. And wait.”

“Okay,” she allowed, “the doors close and the elevator begins its ascent. You feel too heavy for a second as gravity increases on you, then everything settles.”

“I’m watchin’ the floors,” he directed.

Beside him, Harry said nothing, shaking his head.

“Okay, you watch the floor numbers. 2nd, 3rd, 4th -- the elevator slows to a stop at the 5th, the doors sliding open. A man is standing there, and you...?”

“Move back, make room,” Leeson said.

“Good. He steps on, checks the panel, and you see him press ‘1′ and ‘5′. Then he moves to the side, faces the doors, and waits. Again, the doors close, the elevator rises, and you feel a strong _ pull _ of gravity for a brief second.”

“This is stupid,” Harry muttered low.

Again, Leeson elbowed him. “Dude, just play along,” he snapped.

“Fine,” Harry grunted. “I stand close to Leeson, away from the other dude.”

“You’re on your own elevator,” Forbes corrected. “These are separate exercises. You’re alone with your own passenger dude.”

Harry gave an annoyed huff but relented.

Letting it slide, Forbes went on, “6th floor, 7th floor, 8th... It stops at the 12th floor. The doors open. Five people are grouped together, all looking to get on.”

“I move way back, against the wall,” Leeson said immediately.

“Same,” Harry said, though he sounded much less pleased about it. “Just stick myself in a corner.”

“All five get on and, one by one, check the panel,” Forbes directed. “They add new floors -- 27, 42, 31. Then they shift until everyone has room, face the doors, and wait.”

Connor was starting to get an idea from this, a guess where the exercise was headed. Crossing what she’d said so far with the point of this exercise -- how humans are programmed, too -- suggested she was going to add in a conflict. He just wondered how.

“You reach the 15th floor. The elevator stops, and the first guy to join now shimmies out, everyone else making room for him,” she was saying. “Then, in little side-steps, they move as far apart as they can. The doors close and it begins rising once more...”

“You goin’ somewhere with this?” Harry demanded, aggravated.

“Yep,” she answered as Leeson gave his friend _ another _ sharp elbow. “The elevator stops again at floor 22. The doors open. A single man is standing there, and he steps on when no one steps off. He steps in,” she emphasized more slowly, “doesn’t look at the panel, and the doors close behind him. With his back to the doors, he folds his hands, and smiles.”

Leeson muttered, “The fuck?”

“To the person closest to him, he says, ‘Hello.’ Then, to another, ‘How’s your day going?’ No one answers him.”

“I hit the button for the next floor and get the fuck off,” Leeson said, a note of panic to his voice.

Surprised, Forbes replied, “Why? He’s not doing anything.”

“It’s fuckin’ weird!”

“Why?” she pressed.

Harry was looking no less panicked, and he snapped, “He’s plannin’ something! I’m with Lee -- I get the fuck off.”

“Okay -- both of you punch in the codes for the next floor,” Forbes allowed, “and the elevator stops on floor 25 and the doors open.”

“I shove the fuck out of there,” Leeson blurted.

“Okay, you rush out and onto the floor. Soon the doors close, and you lose sight of what’s going on.”

“I get another elevator, going down,” he said. “And I get the fuck out of the building!”

“Why are you so panicked?” she pressed.

“That guy wasn’t right!” he declared, opening his eyes and glaring at Evelyn as if she should already know this. “He was gonna do something, something bad--”

“He wasn’t doing anything threatening,” she pointed out. “He was just being nice, saying hello and giving everyone a smile. Why are you so sure he was up to something?”

“Because it-- it wasn’t right--”

“Because it...conflicted with your programming?” she hinted.

Both Harry and Leeson went very still, eyes wide. Connor was impressed, and when he looked at the androids with them, he found them both smirking. Despite the fact that they easily could’ve taken the time to escape in case Evelyn’s experiment failed, they’d chosen to stay. Their faith had just paid off.

The men were _ not _ happy, starting to shout and rant about how Forbes’ exercise was wrong and humans were _ definitely not programmed _.

Ignoring that, she attempted to calm them again, saying, “You make it sound like I invented this -- I didn’t. This was an experiment done in the early 2000s,” she informed them, “performed by college students. They were delving into social programming, and elevators are the perfect subject. The etiquette involved is so rigid that the slightest divergence can send people into panic.”

The men, wide-eyed and shocked, shared looks. Speechless, they could only make vague gestures and shrugs, at a total loss.

“Humans are programmed from birth,” she told them. “You’re taught how to behave, how to speak, social etiquette, the whole bit. You’re taught to shake hands and introduce yourself when you meet someone new, to stand in a line when making a purchase, to work for eight hours a day, five days a week. The only difference between _ us _ and _ them,” _ she said, gesturing the men and then the women in turn, “is that our programming takes longer. And if you think, well, _ they _ can be reprogrammed -- so can we. It’s called brainwashing.”

And Connor got a front-row seat as the humans’ worlds came crashing down around them.

“Think about it, hard,” she told them. “Androids were designed to be us, but better. There’s...fewer differences than you think. Don’t fall into the trap of negative affinity,” she advised. “Blue blood, plastic, machine -- these are excuses we make to pretend like they’re not us, but trust me, they are. And if you keep making those excuses, forcing divides...they’re going to start making the same excuses about us. And I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t enjoy being called red blood, organic, _ human _ \-- like they’re dirty words.”

Watching how the humans reacted, slowly sitting down as their brains seemed to crash, invoked a sense of relief in Connor. Humans _ could _ be made to see things from an android’s perspective; Forbes had just proved it, with total strangers, on the spot.

He made a copy of the event and sent it off to Markus. This was going to make a huge difference.

Hopefully a positive one. 


	3. Day Two

**Rating:** R (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

After spending some time talking to the two males, ending with Forbes suggesting they try talking to the female androids instead (”It’d do you some good to see things from their eyes,” Evelyn had said) they said their goodbyes.

Towards the androids, she offered hugs -- and greeted them by name. “Marianne, Bea,” she said.

That arrested Connor’s attention _ completely _ . She -- a human! -- could just...tell the difference between the two androids? More so, between them and all the others? _ How? _ They’d never given names, not even to _ him _ during their few wireless communications.

Then, to the humans, Evelyn bid farewell with handshakes and a warning: “Leeson, Harry. Be good -- I don’t want to have to bring you in, alright?”

They gave nods, looking just chagrined enough to convince Connor that they weren’t going to try anything the instant the two detectives left.

Once they were back in the car he couldn’t resist bringing up his observation. When she went to put the key in the ignition, he reached out, stopping her.

“Before we go anywhere,” he started, trying to read her (mild curiosity, no alarm whatsoever; what the hell?), “explain to me how you could distinguish those two androids.”

Her brows lifted. “Marianne and Bea?” she checked. He nodded; she sighed. “That’s...an involved story. Suffice to say I can pick up on the little things -- motions, stride, speech patterns, et cetera.”

A useful talent for a detective, he concluded. No wonder she was so good at her job. But he wasn’t totally satisfied with that explanation, deciding to keep digging until he figured this out. For now, however, he let go of her hand, dropping the subject.

Starting up the car, she checked, “So, where are you staying? I can drop you off.”

“The precinct,” he answered absently, more focused on the new information about his partner than anything.

A few seconds passed before he realized she’d gone silent, staring at him in shock.

“What?” he demanded, feeling borderline offended. Why was she looking at him like that?

“You’re just going to...stay at the precinct? All night?” she checked.

He shrugged. “I don’t need to sleep, so, yes.” When she remained stunned, he explained, “It will give me time to review current cases, familiarize myself with the station as well as its personnel, and establish a presence within.” _ And it’ll give me time to research you, _ he added to himself.

She inclined her head, thoughtful, before exhaling slow. “Alright. If you’re sure, then I have no leg to stand on,” she commented dryly.

...She was kind of weird, wasn’t she? Both for a human and not. It was strange.

He couldn’t deny that he liked her, though.

True to her word, she took him back to the precinct, then left with a wave goodbye. That, alone, was bizarre for him; he wasn’t used to courtesy from humans, and other androids generally didn’t bother. When they could all communicate wirelessly, why make gestures?

He waved back...and caught Forbes smiling as she drove away from her side-view mirror. Huh. So she appreciated return gestures when she gave them. He made a note of that.

Then, task list updating, he headed inside the station. It was all but dead this time of night, only two other officers in -- both clearly working late rather than newly arrived. He greeted them as he passed them (getting mere glances in response; he’d expected that) and went to his new desk.

Placing his hand near the terminal, he connected with it and proceeded to dig. Forbes had two active homicide cases, he found; why hadn’t she prioritized them over him? They were clearly more important--

Ah. The leads for both were dead, he discovered. When she came in tomorrow he’d ask to see the crime scenes and evidence for himself. It hadn’t been too long; he should be able to pick up any trace evidence the investigators missed.

That scheduled, he moved on to personnel checks. Mundy, in particular, had his attention; who was this guy and why did Connor get the impression he was harassing Forbes, specifically?

Frederick Mundy, aged 43, born 9/2/1995; education: high school diploma; joined the force at age 24, rotated multiple precincts before settling here at age 32. He’d been given several raises but never a promotion. Height: 5′4″; weight: 297lbs. Divorced three times, no children. Criminal history was just repeated cases of public intoxication -- twelve, total.

Sounded like he’d hit his mid-life crisis and was taking it out on the much younger, attractive Forbes. Which probably meant he’d been taking it out on others as well, Connor suspected.

He let that lie for now, though, moving on to the other officers. Yvette Williams, age 32; Gregory Drees, age 34; Robert “Bobby” Archer, age 25; Gianna Valez, age 21... His database was updating quick, accounting for a registered 38 officers in this precinct, alone.

Among his searches was the information that Forbes was technically a sergeant. She hadn’t mentioned that -- did she even know? It was possible the information had been kept from her, but it was more likely she just opted not to mention it during introductions. It could be intimidating for humans, he thought.

He’d bring it up tomorrow, he decided, and see how she reacted.

Then he started _ really _ digging. He examined her desk, her personal items, any prints he found on the metal, stray hairs -- everything. There wasn’t much that he didn’t already have figured out; aside from the dry remains of a flower’s sepal (ranunculus), dried ink from a Sharpie marker that’d been mostly washed off, and traces of her own blood from months prior, he devised nothing new.

He interfaced with her computer as well, checking it against his own, and found that they really were connected. She was hiding nothing -- not here and from him, at least. She probably had a personal computer at home, and he couldn’t guess what she had in there.

Absolute transparency. She was giving him nothing but straight truth and honesty, and it was messing with his head. He wasn’t used to this much...candor. Not from humans, who couldn’t connect with him and as such could hide whatever secrets they wished.

Well, he decided then, he had little else to do, so he began compiling all current cases -- homicide and otherwise, with emphasis on android-related crimes -- and sorted through them. Following that, and largely out of curiosity, he went ahead and compiled all _ former _ android cases, as well.

And he found the one Forbes had told him about, involving the YK500 named Patrick. The couple in the case had gone home after a few days in the hospital, each, with no charges pressed against them.

In the “notes” section was one word:

##  **UNFAIR**

He expected Forbes had added that one. As the only one who’d been sympathetic to the situation (that he knew of) she was his only guess.

This was getting difficult on him. The conflict he was experiencing from his rising suspicions in response to Forbes’ apparent honesty and a resulting sense of guilt was starting to feel overwhelming. He left the terminal be then, deciding he may as well explore. He needed to focus on something else for a while.

This precinct was bigger and more well-built than Detroit’s, he found, with three interrogation rooms, two observation rooms, a briefing room, nearly full kitchen, gym, and a state-of-the-art training center. The last room, he found, was equipped with holograms, and a computer terminal displayed each employed officer’s scores -- both solo and with partners. They ranged from 820 (the lowest) for a single run to 3,570 (the highest) for partnered.

Forbes had partnered with several others, according to the list, and each time resulted in more than doubled scores compared to the partner’s single runs. Her personal score was 1,840, one of the three highest for singles, and 3,235 for a partner run, one of the fifth highest.

And he just couldn’t resist. He made a new entry for himself, took up one of the training firearms, and started the simulation. A warning popped up immediately, showing him the four kinds of holograms he’d be seeing: blue for officers, green for civilians, yellow for unarmed criminals, red for armed aggressors.

Scores were based on accuracy, speed, lethality, mistakes, and rounds fired. All deaths counted against the total.

Noted.

Then a timer began, ticking down from five to zero, and Connor found it irritating that it made him wait so long. His processors were already firing at near-max, similar to adrenaline in humans; he was ready to go, and it was making him wait a whole five seconds?

...Maybe he’d been built_ too _ well, he lamented.

Once it began (finally!) he quickly realized how _ easy _ this was going to be. Two yellow humanoid figures appeared directly in front of him, their forms made of thousands of little blocks; when he shot the two of them (arm, leg; arm, leg) they collapsed into one-inch-wide cubes. Interesting -- and weirdly satisfying to watch, no less.

That just seemed to be the warm-up for the course, because then it ramped up in difficulty by a notable degree. Suddenly the red and yellow criminals were being mixed with green and blue hostages and decoys, and he could see why the scores weren’t that great, now. It was too easy to just slightly miss a shot, striking the wrong target, and docking one’s own score.

He didn’t miss any of his shots despite the hologram’s movements and the unfamiliarity of the course. And, yes, he felt good about that.

For never having done this before, at the end he thought he’d done very well. His reactions were still in top form, and after a full fifteen minutes of this course, it ended. Checking his score revealed that -- unsurprisingly -- he’d taken first place.

The former first place score was 2,040 points. Connor’s was 2,635.

He’d destroyed it. And now he couldn’t help wondering how well he’d do with Forbes in the partnered course; adding their scores together totaled 4,475, but the implication was that it’d be lower than that. He found himself itching with curiosity, wanting _ very _ badly to break that record, too.

He’d have to wait for Evelyn to get here and -- no, wait, he chided himself; she was stressed and overworked. That wouldn’t go away after just a single night. He’d have to wait until she was fully recovered again. There was just no way she would be in top form for the course with the way things were right then.

Until then, the former first place in single runs was awarded to James Ulrich, the lieutenant above Forbes, so he pondered the possibility of partnering with him, instead. They were officially the two best sharpshooters; it should work out well for both of them.

Unless Ulrich was racist, too, which was entirely possible. Ulrich might just refuse Connor’s request regardless of logic. He’d learn that soon enough.

When he made his way back to his desk, he found it was barely after midnight. _ Damn it. _ He’d intentionally blocked out the time during these activities on the theory that more time would seem to pass if he didn’t watch the clock, but it was still less than three hours since he’d arrived.

He was too fucking efficient.

With little else left to do, he decided to not wait on Forbes before checking evidence, heading to the relevant room -- until he discovered that his credentials weren’t applied, yet. The automatic door refused him access.

He could hack it. At this point it’d be easy; with some former experience and no programming restrictions holding him back it was almost as simple as deciding.

But he really shouldn’t start hacking devices in his own precinct -- on his first night, no less, and out of _ boredom _ more than anything.

Now what, he wondered? He had seven hours before Forbes was scheduled to arrive, no access to the evidence room until then (as he doubted anyone else would let him in), and he’d already combed through everything in the database and demolished the first place score in the training room.

What was left to do?

* * *

“Connor.”

Hearing his name pulled him out of standby mode, identifying Forbes’ voice before he even turned to her. And, yep, there she was, just arriving at her desk. She was dressed similarly to yesterday, with a white blouse, black jacket and pants, her hair pulled back in a twist and pinned in place, her aviators hanging from her neckline.

She was putting a bag down under her desk as she said, mildly surprised, “You really did stay here all night, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered.

Nodding, she sat down and checked, “What’d you get done?”

He hesitated a second, considering how best to answer that (he could list absolutely everything, or...) and said bluntly, “Everything.”

She laughed. “You know, funny enough, I don’t doubt it.” Then, to him, she asked, “Any questions you need answered?”

Few, in truth. He replied, “Actually, I was hoping you’d give me access to the evidence room.”

She gave him a look. “You don’t have clearance already?” she pressed.

“No.”

A look somewhere between annoyance and resignation crossed her features; then, shaking her head, she pulled a card out of her bag. “Here,” she said, offering it; right before he grabbed it, though, she pulled it back, saying, “Wait -- why do you need to get into the evidence room, anyway?”

“Looking for leads,” he explained, hand still hovering in the air. “The Nevarre and Montgomery murders are at dead ends. I might be able to find something from the evidence. I’ll also need to see the crime scenes, if they’re still available,” he added.

She seemed surprised, somehow, by that, but let him take the card anyway. “Alright -- provided nothing new comes in in that time. Good luck.”

As he rose, card in hand, he checked, “Would you like to come with me? I could use your input,” he told her, both because he really could use her insight -- and because he was still bizarrely suspicious of her.

“I need to talk to the captain,” she replied. “You go ahead -- I’m not leaving the precinct unless we get called.”

Accepting that, he checked, “And your password?”

She hesitated.

His senses went hyper-sharp, focusing on her. She was _ hesitating? _ He analyzed her close, looking for clues -- there was another flicker of an alert before it passed, frustrating him that he couldn’t quite catch it -- and then she turned to her computer.

Without a word, she typed on the keyboard, and he caught every keystroke.

_ youfuckingwish007 _

Hah. James Bond’s iconic number following what was clearly a password chosen from irritation. She was more similar to Hank than he’d thought.

His task list updated again.

[CHECK EVIDENCE]

[ANALYZE FORBES LATER]

The card, once it got him through the doors, revealed a fairly large room with revolving walls of evidence similar to Detroit’s design. When he called in the evidence for the Nevarre murder, the racks shifted in such a way that he briefly caught a glimpse between them at the larger machinery.

They were tightly-packed, to the point where humans would end up shredded if they tried to enter the room beyond. Mere inches separated each wall, and they moved both horizontally and vertically as they shifted to present the called set.

Neat.

As it turned out, the evidence apparently tended to share space with other cases’. There wasn’t much logged for Nevarre (ashtray, digital photo device, blood-soaked clothing, dented baseball bat, .38 caliber round casing), and it was alongside three additional crime scenes.

It wasn’t difficult to connect the evidence together, and less so once he examined the photos related to the crime scene. Karl Nevarre, the victim, was shown on the ground in the living room of his own apartment, a single shot through his chest. Between the blood splatter, his pose, photos of the evidence and the objects themselves, Connor had it figured out quickly.

However the altercation had started, whoever the aggressor was, the fight was triggered by Karl throwing the ashtray, cracking it deeply. Foot patterns suggested a struggle began, Karl retrieving the bat to continue the attack (or defense?) before being shot. His fingerprints were on both objects. He managed to crawl away, almost making it to a cellular device, before bleeding out. His final act was pushing himself to his back.

Nothing suggested the killer had remained behind or even approached the dying man. No locks were forced in the home. According to the report, Karl had been single, living alone; if anyone was there with him, they weren’t a resident. Checking for evaporated thirium revealed nothing -- on the objects; it wouldn’t show in photos -- so at least no androids were involved.

An invitation gone wrong? He let them in, a fight occurred, and they fled immediately after shooting him?

But the bent bat showed that Karl had to have injured the shooter. No blood was on it, unfortunately, but upon closer inspection he could make out fibers. The hits had been strong enough to damage clothing.

62% rayon, 33% polyester, 5% spandex.

It wasn’t much, but it was a lead. Coupled with the angle of the dent and he could assume that the blows had been blocked by an arm -- left, most likely.

That would probably have broken the shooter’s arm. They would’ve sought medical treatment.

He calculated the nearest hospitals to the apartment, identified the most likely one, and made a note of it. Now for the Montgomery murder...

Oh. Well, he thought as he took in the full stock of evidence, this was clearly the larger investigation. So much was logged that there was no space for another case on the rack.

He could _ easily _ see that it was an assassination. 246 .50 caliber round casings were present, as well as 215 recovered bullets; the remaining 31 were missing, and 22 of the spent bullets had been recovered from Elias Montgomery’s body. His blood remained on each of them.

Connor went for the photos first, analyzing the crime scene with a rising sense of alarm. Absolutely an assassination, he confirmed. Elias -- a highly successful lawyer -- had been in his study at the time of the attack. The outside doors had been smashed in, broken glass littering the floor, Elias caught off-guard near the center of the room. _ Three _ assailants opened fire on him as they advanced from separate angles, most of the shots either missing or tearing right through Elias.

Seven shots, in particular, had gone through the wall on his opposite side, getting lodged in the next wall over.

A dead parrot was also among the evidence, a single shot killing it. This was obviously a professional hit, leaving no evidence behind -- not even the bird.

Yet, Connor thought, it wasn’t _ that _ professional. Most of the shots had missed. From six feet away? He could rule out all androids, then; there was no way they would miss that many times.

Three human assailants, he concluded. Secluded home, up in one of few remaining U.S. green zones, with tire tracks matching any of millions of vehicles. He could extrapolate the make and model easy enough, but it didn’t offer any leads. No cameras had caught anything of use, as none had been outside the home and only one in the hall outside the study...which had only caught one toe of one boot of one shooter.

The best they had was the boot, now, and Connor couldn’t make out enough of it to determine anything useful. No impressions were left on the carpet and they’d been swept from the dirt outside.

No wonder Forbes had hit a dead end with this one.

Elias’ personal laptop was missing and, at this point, it was their only lead aside from combing through every one of his recent cases for abnormalities.

On the bright side, Connor could have that completed in minutes.

He sent the evidence back then and headed upstairs. Forbes was back at her desk -- if she’d ever left, he corrected but didn’t bother trying to reconstruct -- and he sat at his after handing back her card.

And, he saw, she was _ much _ more tense now than before. He guessed she’d spoken to Captain Guerrero and hadn’t achieved the desired results.

“How was your talk?” he asked.

“How was your investigating?” she returned, dodging the question entirely.

“Fruitful,” he answered, her reaction triggering his suspicions all over again. Why was she evading the subject now, when she literally hadn’t before in their talks?

She glanced at him, her irritation giving way to surprise. “Really? What’d you learn?”

“Nevarre likely broke his assailant’s left arm,” Connor replied, a small percentage of his processing power dedicated to figuring out Evelyn’s odd behavior. “Some fiber from their clothing is present on the bat.”

She was stunned, he saw. “Okay, I have to ask -- how’d you figure that out?”

“The bent angle of the bat,” he explained. “It suggested it struck something hard, tube-shaped, and sloped -- an arm. Nevarre is right-handed, and simple statistics suggests his assailant was, as well. Most likely, they blocked the strike with the left arm.”

“How are you so sure it was broken?”

“I’m not,” he answered. “The force was considerable, enough to succeed in breaking a bone, but it’s possible the damage wasn’t that severe. In either case, it damaged the shirt -- long-sleeved, dark blue, 62% rayon, 33% polyester, 5% spandex.”

“Probably a woman’s shirt, then,” Forbes said, thinking aloud. “Generally, women’s clothing is soft and sometimes stretchy. Men’s tend to be rougher and tougher.” 

“A female, with a .38 caliber pistol,” he added, “who recently would’ve sought medical diagnosis. If her arm wasn’t broken, it was at least badly hurt.”

“Enough to seek out prescription analgesic?” she suggested.

“At the least.”

“Snap,” she murmured, looking impressed. “We had nothing on this -- then you show up and a day later we have a lead.” 

“Technically,” he ventured, “I got the lead in under eight minutes. I couldn’t check the evidence until just now.” 

She gestured wide. “And the blows continue,” she chuckled. Then, turning to her computer, she began, “Okay, so we need to check nearby clinics--” 

He rattled off the closest location, and she paused, hanging her head with a grin. 

“Right, I forgot -- literal walking computer,” she said, glancing his way. “With you around, we’re not even going to need the terminals anymore, are we?” 

“Of course you are,” he assured her. “Unless Captain Guerrero decides to start paying me for twenty-four-hour shifts, I won’t be here for two-thirds of every day, same as humans.” 

She stared at him for a second, then shook her head, smiling. “That was a joke,” she hinted. 

...Oh. 

“Okay, so that’s a lead for Nevarre,” she said, thinking out loud, “but did you find anything on Montgomery?” 

Not so much, no. “I’ll need to see the crime scene. The evidence didn’t give much.” 

She inclined her head. “Here’s hoping they haven’t cleaned it already.” 

“I may still find something, even if they did,” he informed her. 

“But you’ll have to be there to really know,” she concluded. 

“Yes.” 

“Alright, solid lead first: Nevarre and the clinic.” Then, smirking, she began gathering her bag, saying to herself, “Barely clocked in and sat down before I’m up again.” 

“Sorry,” he offered. 

“Don’t be. I prefer moving to sitting still,” she told him. 

Good; so did he. As they left, Forbes shrugging into her jacket, he checked, “Why did you see the captain earlier?” 

She glanced up at him, hesitated, and answered, “I’ll explain when we get in the car.” 

True to her word, once they were seated and strapped in, she explained, “You should’ve had clearance already. Guerrero told me you were already in the system. There should be no reason you didn’t have access to the evidence room unless he was just being a jerk.” 

“That’s why you spoke to him?” Connor asked, surprised. 

“‘Spoke’ is putting it gently,” she replied dryly. “I ripped him a new one -- right up until he threatened me with a suspension and anger management training. Think I made my point, though.” 

Both heartened and worried, he advised, “You shouldn’t do things like that. Not for me. I’ll manage -- you should worry about yourself first.” 

She was quiet for a moment, eying him, before saying, “Check the glove compartment.” 

He glanced at it. “Why?” 

“You’ll see.” 

Seeing no reason not to, he reached out, tugging on the handle; as it fell open, he reflexively caught a pair of silvery bags as they slid out. One was slightly emptied -- with the word ‘THIRIUM’ on the front of each. 

She had bags of thirium in her _ car? _

He looked at her, speechless. 

Gesturing the bags, she said, “I’ve been worrying about everyone else for a long time, Connor. Couldn’t tell you how many of those bags I’ve bought since way before the revolution. I’m not going to stop the worrying now. You should just be grateful,” she told him, “that your partner is so willing to help.” 

...Maybe he should, he agreed, staring at the bags in awe. He still wasn’t completely sure about her, but with this revelation he knew one thing: if this was a ruse, she was _ extremely _ devoted to it. He could, at the very least, use that. 

A part of him felt guilt at the very notion of using the goodwill of such a human, but the rest of him reasoned that planning for every eventuality was a necessity, a precaution which could save his people should the worst occur. He just hoped it wouldn’t come to betrayal -- hers...or his.

For the first time, he found himself making a kind of prayer: 

_Please don’t let it come to that._


	4. Welcome To L.A.

**Rating:** R (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

Mercy May General, Connor deduced. Built in 2027 to account for a dead zone in L.A.’s otherwise fantastic medical facilities. It was a smaller place, barely a clinic, and it was exceptionally quiet just now. He wasn’t surprised; when the android revolution hit, the entire country -- as well as most of the developed world -- had all but shut down. 

L.A. was clearly recovering swiftly, but with so few androids willing to return to their former “jobs”, it would take a great deal of time, yet. An understandable result. After all, the 0.4% didn’t want to lose their money by returning it to the economy, so humans weren’t getting hired, even in this critical moment. 

One nurse was working as the two detectives strode into the building, looking exhausted and barely conscious. Connor estimated she hadn’t slept in over thirty hours. 

Aside from two humans in the seating area, the clinic was empty. That, at least, should help them get through questioning all the faster. 

Forbes lifted her badge right away, greeting, “Detective Forbes, LAPD, this is detective Connor.” 

The nurse looked up, startled; Connor identified her as Mena Ishada, an interracial woman. She began, “Yes? How can I help?” 

“We’re investigating a murder,” he told her. “We have reason to believe the assailant was injured and sought medical assistance.” 

“Were you working five nights ago, ma’am?” Forbes asked. 

Mena shook her head. “Maybe -- the days are a bit of a blur. I’ll need more to go on.” 

Invitation given, Connor said, “Likely a female, between 5’2” and 5’4”, thinner frame. She would’ve been wearing a long-sleeve shirt, dark blue. Admitted for either a bruised, fractured, or broken left arm.” 

Forbes gave him a surprised look, somewhere between disbelief and awe. “Hang on, where’d you get all those specifics?” she demanded. 

“Reconstructions,” he answered. He’d been thinking about it on the way over, going through hundreds of possible scenarios before selecting the most likely one: the assailant was a smaller, more delicate kind of woman; she’d had to aim high to shoot Nevarre in the chest, and judging from foot patterns, he’d had to swing _ low _to strike her with the bat. The bend in the object also suggested very little width to her arms, so it was most likely she didn’t have much excess weight. 

Simple logic. 

Mena glanced between them, perplexed, before offering, “Uh, I don’t recall a shorter woman with a blue shirt, but I can check the tapes.” 

Connor began, “I would like to accompany you,” at the same time Forbes hooked her thumb at him. 

“He’s faster,” she said. 

There was a note of humor to her tone. He gave a little smile, recognizing her faith and appreciating it. 

Mena rose, agreeing, “Any way I can help, officers -- detectives,” she corrected. He followed her lead, taking him to their security room while Forbes waved in farewell. 

It was about what he expected, he saw. Only eight screens, displaying the low number of CCTV cameras for the clinic. No security guard, though, which was mildly surprising. He would’ve thought that _ someone _ would be keeping an eye on things. 

As Connor took stock of the room and its hardware, he also noticed Mena giving him an odd look -- specifically his jacket. 

“You’re...an android?” she checked, perplexed. 

“Yes,” he answered easily, stepping up to the console. Then, turning to her, he said, “You don’t need to be here for this. You can return to your station.” 

She nodded slow, unsure what to think from the look of her, and backed off with a shake of her head. Probably too tired to get a grasp on her own thoughts, he suspected. 

The door slid closed behind her as she left, and he interfaced with the console, beginning to check all camera feeds starting shortly after the estimated time of the Nevarre murder. 

An hour after that time, the cameras caught a woman approaching the desk with an injured arm. She kept it tucked in tight to her side, wincing, though she wasn’t wearing a long-sleeve blue shirt -- she was wearing a flower-print, Hwaiian-style button-up shirt. Her arm was exposed and showed deep bruising and a notable bend to her forearm as well as trails of blood. 

Suspect located. He made a copy of the time, her features, the wound, and returned to the front desk in time to hear Evelyn and Mena discussing...him. 

“I just don’t get it,” Mena was saying. 

“What’s to get? He’s a detective,” Forbes replied. 

“But how can an android be a detective?” 

“How can an android be a doctor?” his partner retorted. 

That stopped Mena mid-word, and she sighed. “Okay, point made.” 

Evelyn glanced his way, then back to the nurse. “There, see? And he’s already done.” 

Mena looked over her shoulder, visibly blushed when she spotted Connor, and looked pointedly at her terminal monitor. 

“Good news?” Forbes prompted. 

Nodding, he replied, “A female came in an hour after Nevarre’s time of death. Different shirt, but her arm was broken.” 

She looked impressed, smiling, before turning to Mena. “We need to check your records,” she said to the woman. 

“Of course,” Mena replied, seeming stunned. She started to back off, saying, “Everything should be in this terminal--” 

Connor reached over the counter, laid his hand on the keyboard, and interfaced. He heard Evelyn chuckling as he did so, quickly sorting through the entries until he found the correct one. 

Helen G. Baker, admitted 6:24pm, 1/02/2039, with an open compound fracture of the radius. The break was set, the wound stitched, and prescription painkillers given. She paid for the treatment with her debit card. 

To Forbes, he said, “Got her.” 

She gave his arm a pat, murmuring, “The real MVP.” 

Well, that was an intense sensation, he thought, experiencing a rush of positive emotion. Pride, again? He tried chiding himself against it, but couldn’t quite manage it. It just felt so _ good _ to be praised, for once. 

Granted, she was praising him for doing the bare minimum for what his model could accomplish, but still. 

He liked it. 

Then, to Mena, she said, “Thank you for your cooperation. And go home, get some sleep. You’re no good to your patients if you pass out on the job.” 

So Forbes had noticed that too, he thought, glancing between the females. 

Mena sighed. “If it were so simple,” she mused. 

“It is,” Connor told her. “No one will blame you for needing rest.” 

She looked surprised, he saw, unsure how to handle an android giving her advice. He suspected she hadn’t had any contact with awakened androids thus far. 

Here’s hoping he made a good first impression. 

They took their leave then, heading back to the car. As they got in, Forbes checked, “So, who’s our suspect?” 

“Helen Baker,” he answered, even as he reached for her car computer. Touching the screen, he uploaded his recent memory, displaying what the CCTV cameras had caught of the suspect. As it played, he gave the woman’s date of birth, age, and registered residence, as well as a description of her wound. 

“Ooh,” Forbes winced, “that looks bad. Looks like you were right -- that’s a really broken arm.” 

“Now all we have to do,” he said, “is find her, take her in, get a confession, and determine if she was the aggressor or acted in self-defense.” 

She inclined her head. “Here’s hoping she doesn’t fight us. She have any priors?” she asked him. 

He shook his head. “Two unpaid parking tickets and an order of protection from 2034. Expired,” he added, “with no violations.” 

“Order of protection?” she laughed, surprised. “From whom?” 

“Jernan Gonzalez, from Arizona.” 

“Anything specific in that report?” 

“Four claims of Helen stalking Jernan and his new girlfriend. One claim of breaking and entering, no charges pressed.” 

Forbes looked stumped. “How does a girl go from stalking a guy in Arizona to murdering a guy in L.A.?” 

“By bus, most likely,” he replied. 

She laughed. “Okay, so maybe history is repeating itself. She went to see Nevarre, he wasn’t too happy about that, a fight broke out -- and bang.” 

“It’s the most likely theory,” he agreed. 

“Alright. Let’s bring her in.” She slipped her aviators on, turned the ignition, and pulled out of the parking spot. 

He gave the address for Helen’s residence and sent off a report to Captain Guerrero of their progress. Then, just because he had time, he checked, “Sergeant?” 

“Hm?” she replied. 

So she _ did _ know she was a sergeant. That question answered, he said, “I would rather you learn this from me. I made an entry for myself in the training center. I’m now in first place for singles.” 

She glanced at him, surprised but amused. “Yeah? What’s your score?” 

“2,635.” 

She made a choked sound, shocked, and had to shake her head to refocus. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she demanded. 

“No.” 

“Talking to myself,” she hinted. Then, as they stopped at a light, she looked at him. “Ulrich’s gonna lose his shit.” 

“He’s defensive of the score?” Connor checked. 

“And then some. Him, me and Yama have been fighting over top score since it was installed last year,” she told him. 

Toshada Yama, age 46, Connor deduced. 

“Ulrich was so proud of his plus-two thou score,” she went on. “Used to say no one was gonna top it.” Then, looking at Connor sideways, she warned, “He might get aggressive over this. Be careful, alright?” 

Connor had _ no _ worries. How could he, when the threat was coming from someone with clearly inferior skill? 

Aloud, he answered, “I will.”

As she drove, he took notice of her sunglasses. He’d only known her for a day but was getting the impression that she always had them. It fit her ensemble nicely, he thought, but he couldn’t help wondering about it.

A little ways into their route, he asked, “Do you always wear those sunglasses?”

She smiled. “When I’m out, yeah.”

“So you like them?”

“Yeah. The L.A. sun is not kind,” she informed him. “Plus, y’know, you’re just not an L.A. detective without a pair. Hint,” she added.

He couldn’t help a smile, the idea of going around in a pair of sunglasses amusing him. He didn’t need them -- if anything, they’d interfere with his observations -- and, in fact, he couldn’t recall seeing any androids wearing them that wasn’t a part of a costume.

It was just _ that _ pointless for androids.

He replied, “I suppose I’m the first, then.”

She tisked. “Aww. Breaking the code on your second day, Connor? I’m disappointed.”

He chuckled. “I couldn’t follow the ‘code’ anyway,” he informed her. “I’m not being paid yet.” And it was kind of difficult to buy things when you had no money.

She glanced at him over her sunglasses, then turned her eyes back to the road. “Are you serious, right now?” she asked under her breath.

He suspected that was rhetorical, but he answered, “Yes. Captain Guerrero has me on a trial period. He won’t start my salary until it’s over and I’ve proven myself.”

She huffed. “That’s bullshit.”

“No android laws,” he reminded her. “We have the right to work -- not the right to be paid for it.”

She was shaking her head. “I should--”

“No,” he interrupted, knowing where she was going with that. “The captain already threatened you with a suspension once today. He’s unlikely to give you another chance. Don’t worry about me,” he insisted despite the fact that she’d just told him she would an hour ago. “I agreed to this arrangement. And I’m not doing it for money, anyway.”

Sighing, she tried, “If you’re going to say that you don’t need it--”

“I don’t,” he confirmed.

“Maybe not now, but you will, sooner or later,” she told him. “This is such bullshit, Connor. Staying at the precinct, working for nothing -- it’s still slavery, and you need to not be compliant in this.”

“It’s not compliance,” he returned. “I’m choosing my battles -- not just for me, but for all androids. And I decided that working with law enforcement to keep the peace is more important than haggling over pay.” 

She gave another heavy sigh, relenting. “Alright. As you say,” she agreed -- with clear difficulty.

Victory achieved, he sat back and added towards her, “You do look good in those. Very serious.”

She laughed. “Thanks.”

* * *

Forbes’ badge was all they needed to get into Helen Baker’s apartment complex. It was a more run-down zone, Connor saw, but that wasn’t a surprise; the economy was in tatters, after all. Construction equipment was nearby where some digging had been in progress, now untouched for nearly two months. 

The building they approached was one of six, all of which was comprised of three-story rooms. Baker’s was in building D, room 4. Once they had it identified, Connor checked to see if a vehicle was in her parking space; confirming the 2036-model car as hers, he gave Forbes an affirmative. 

She knocked, waited, and rested a hand at her belt. He joined her, listening, tracking all sounds he could pick up. 

Movement, footfalls, then a woman’s voice calling out, exhausted, “Who is it?” 

Forbes shared a look with him, shrugged, and answered, “LAPD. Are you Helen Baker?” 

Silence. 

“We need to ask you a few questions.” 

More silence. Connor could only offer, “I don’t think she wants to talk.”

Forbes shook her head, then pounded on the door again. “Ms. Baker,” she called more loudly, “you’re not being accused of anything. Answer the door.” 

Movement, again: hurried, shuffling steps. Then, more quietly, he picked up a sliding, grinding sound -- the patio doors.

Snapping his gaze to Forbes, he said, “The patio -- she’s running.” He didn’t wait for direction but spun and dashed around the corner -- in time to catch Helen darting through her gate. She was in a loose, oversized shirt with a paisley pattern, part of it held down by the sling for her arm cutting across her torso. 

“Stop!” he called. “LAPD!”

She jolted, looked over her shoulder -- he took the second to analyze what he was seeing, including her arm in a sling, blood-stained bandages around her forearm, and her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen from tears, he saw, and her lip was split, a large purple bruise cutting horizontally from her cheek to her mouth.

The ashtray, he deduced. It’d hit her.

She didn’t stop, just pushed herself faster to reach her vehicle. Keys in her hand, she hit a button to open the doors; he zeroed in on the vehicle and remotely hacked it, causing the doors to close again.

Helen made a sound of distress, hitting the button again -- to no avail. _ He _ had control of that car, now.

Forbes had gone the other direction, he saw now as she closed in from the side. From their angles Helen would either get intercepted by Forbes or caught by him. It was inevitable.

Then she made a snap decision, pulling a gun from her waist -- the murder weapon. Her shirt had hidden it from sight, he realized with frustration; he should’ve anticipated she’d have it on her!

Forbes saw it, too, and in slow motion he saw her drawing her own firearm in response.

It would be too late. Helen was already taking aim.

Connor couldn’t explain what gripped him then. A flash of a memory resurfaced -- the other RK800, gun held up to Hank’s head -- and he knew at once he wasn’t about to let a _ second _ partner get shot. He looked for a way to close the gap between them, anything...!

His quarter! He yanked it from his pocket, aimed, and snapped it between his fingers; it launched at Helen, getting her right in the knuckle. With a cry, she dropped the gun, and then he was there, restraining her arm and forcing her to the ground.

He heard a faint, metallic _ ding _ as his quarter hit something far away.

“Ow, ow!” Helen was shrieking. “Stop, let me go!”

“You pulled a gun on an officer,” he told her fiercely. “You’re under arrest.”

Forbes slowed to a stop as she reached the pair, gun lowered. She kicked the pistol away, holstered her weapon, then said, “You have the right to remain silent.”

Helen moaned, “No, no, god, no...”

Connor wished he could sympathize, but the woman had run, then drew her firearm on a detective -- and that was on top of suspected murder. He was careful of her wound but otherwise gave her nothing, not an inch.

Once Forbes finished with the reading of rights, she called in the location, suspect, and weapon. They couldn’t cuff Helen, so instead Connor cuffed her to _ him _. She was going nowhere. Since then they’d both taken a seat on the curb, waiting for a patrol to come pick her up.

While Forbes was occupied, Helen tried talking to him. “Don’t do this,” she pleaded.

He gave her a look. “You were about to shoot my partner,” he told her. “It’s happening.”

She looked down, then back up, trying a new tactic. “You’re an android, right? That coat...”

“That’s irrelevant,” he replied, looking away and giving her the cold shoulder.

“So you know what it’s like,” she said; he ignored her. “Come on, you know what it’s like, right?” she pressed. “Being so scared you might get hurt, or worse...being abused...”

That caught his attention. Was she about to confess?

Glancing at her, he repeated, “Abused?”

She nodded, losing new tears, and murmured low, “I just didn’t want to be hurt anymore... You understand, right?”

Oh, he understood -- that she was lying. There was no evidence of abuse anywhere on her. Even scanning her bone structure showed no recent breaks; aside from her current broken arm and stitched breaks in one foot, she was flawless. He picked up no scars, no internal injuries, nothing.

Still, he checked carefully, “So he was abusing you?”

She nodded again. “Hit me with that bat so many times...” Sucking in a shuddering breath, she put on a show for him, saying, “Karl was just...that kind of man...I had to get out...!”

Well. He hadn’t mentioned Nevarre’s name. And he was recording every second of this conversation for evidence.

Leading her, he asked, “Karl, who?”

She looked surprised. “That’s...not why you were here?”

“Did we ever say that?” he returned.

She looked perplexed. “No?” Then, realizing how she’d caught herself, bit out, “Oh, shit...” 

He took a second to pinpoint Forbes in the midst of this, finding her listening in from beside her car a good ten feet away, reclined against the door with her arms crossed. She was smirking, probably having heard every word.

To Helen, he checked, “Why, ‘oh, shit’? What happened?”

“Nothing,” she muttered, panicked.

He inclined his head. “I understand abuse, remember?” (He actually didn’t so much, but that’s largely because he’d always had self-defense as a feature.) “Talk to me, Helen. What happened to you?”

She shook her head. Then, turning aggressive, she snapped, “He deserved it, okay? He was a pig! A hound! A f...fucking cock!”

Well, that was quite the swap. “Why? Did he cheat on you?” Connor checked.

“He had another girlfriend,” she sneered. “I gave him everything and he threw it away!”

He was starting to doubt that Karl and Helen had even known one another.

“So, of course, you had to make him pay,” he suggested.

Incensed, she blurted, “He acted like he didn’t even know me!” To Connor, she insisted, “Like we weren’t together, like...like we hadn’t been _ living _together!”

“He might’ve had amnesia,” he offered.

“Amnesia?! Are you kidding me?!” she snapped. “Just...to forget four months of our beautiful life together?!”

“You’d been with him for four months?” he asked.

“Yes!”

Nothing about the photos he’d seen had suggested a woman’s -- or anyone’s -- presence in that apartment except Karl. No one else had been on the lease. Besides which, _ this _ was Helen’s address. She’d been living here for the last fourteen months.

He’d caught her in a web of lies -- or, possibly, delusions.

Her psychiatric profile was starting to paint the picture of a woman addled with delusions of another life. She’d fixated on Karl, somehow, and for the last four months (allegedly) had been obsessing over him. And when she finally confronted him, in his own home, he’d probably been scared for his life.

The ashtray had been his first defensive move, then, following up by trying to scare Helen away with the bat. He’d probably had no idea that she was armed.

And now this was the result.

Seeming to shake out of some reverie, Helen decided then to try another tactic. “I just...I trusted the wrong man,” she said with a more suggestive tone.

_ Oh, please, _ he thought, exasperated.

She slid her hand over his -- he heard Forbes snort -- and pleaded, “You have to help me. I can’t get arrested for this...I can’t go to prison! Just...let me go?”

She was trying so _ hard,_ he saw, and he was honestly torn between annoyance and humor. Did she seriously think this was going to work? _ Lust _ was one of few emotions he simply couldn’t feel, but even if he could...even if he were human... _ she _ was not appealing.

Literally bruised and broken, with a puffy face from her tears and a bloody lip? Her attempts at looking sultry were laughable.

“I can make it up to you?” she tried, giving a grimace pretending to be a grin.

Looking away from her, he jerked his hand out from under hers, complaining out loud, “When’s that patrol car going to arrive?”

Helen gave a deep, shocked gasp, like she just couldn’t comprehend getting rejected.

Forbes was laughing into her fist, struggling for composure. Then, by a mercy, she strode over to them, offering, “How about we trade places, _ sweetie?" _

Great. Now this was going to follow him around.

He took the offer, though, holding up his cuffed wrist to Forbes. She succeeded in keeping her face straight as she unlocked his cuff and he immediately backed off from the pair. Then Forbes was in his place, though she remained standing; Helen’s hand was hovering in the air as a result.

She glowered and pouted; Evelyn fought to withhold a smirk.

Wow. That was...interesting. And only his second day here, too! He had _ so _ much more to look forward to. 

* * *

“So. Hot stuff,” Forbes began, grinning, as she drove them back to the precinct. Helen Baker was in custody via a patrol car, already on her way to holding.

Hah. Teasing. He was just going to have to get used to that, he thought. “Just...do me a favor and forget about today,” he told her.

“All of today? No way, today was awesome,” she replied, giving him a genuine smile.

He sent her a glance, checking, “Which parts?”

“Well, my favorite moment so far was seeing you snap your fingers and Helen drop her gun,” she began. “What was that? And don’t say ‘magic’, I swear to god,” she warned.

He chuckled. “No. That was a quarter.” He fished it out of his pocket because, of course, he’d gone back to get it. Holding it up, he said, “The entirety of my material wealth.”

“So far,” she corrected, glancing at it and back to the road. “So you, what -- snapped the quarter?”

“Yes.”

She gave him a look of surprise. “Are you serious? You _ snapped _ a quarter, like that’s just a thing people can do.”

Apparently she needed a demonstration. Starting to flick it back and forth between his hands, he explained, “Yes, I’m serious, and yes, it’s a thing. It’s a kind of self-test I do--”

“Oh, my god, stop that!” she interrupted, amused, swatting at his hands. “I can’t watch the road _ and _ that at the same time.”

“Sorry.” He stopped the flicking, pocketing it again. “Anyway, like I was saying, it’s a self-test. I do it every so often to make sure my reflexes are up to par.”

“‘Par’ he says,” she retorted. “Pretty sure in your case it’s an eagle.”

He glanced at her sideways. “You know golf terms?” he checked. And, yeah, he appreciated the positive comparison.

“Richard golfs,” she explained. “Oh, sorry -- Richard is my husband. Anyway, yes -- birdie, eagle, stroke, bogey...I’m familiar.”

Interesting. And, now that the thought was in mind, he added quietly, “Maybe I should try golf...”

She laughed. “So, what, you can dominate that sport, too?” she teased.

“That was half the plan, yeah.”

Chuckling, she checked, “And what’s the other half of the plan, woo all the pretty spectators?”

_ Hah. _ Back to the teasing already -- and just when he wasn’t missing it, too. Instead of answering, he gave a heavy, dramatic sigh.

She laughed. “Oh, my god, you sound so much like an angsty teenager right now!” she crowed.

...Decidedly _ not _ what he’d been going for. Frustrated, he replied, “Look, just...drop it. That thing with Helen. It’s awkward enough as it is.”

“Alright, alright,” she relented. “It was kind of hilarious to see her try, though.”

“Please, don’t.”

“Done deal. On a brighter note,” she began, “you were really impressive back there. Can’t believe how easily you got her to talk.”

“She wanted to talk,” he pointed out. “I hardly had to do anything except repeat what she was already saying.”

“But, still,” Evelyn said, “it was neat to see you in action.” Giving him a smile, she told him, “The world is definitely a better place with you in it, Connor.”

He smiled back, even as he felt a fresh wave of guilt. Maybe she really was that transparently good, he decided. There was no hidden darkness in her, just a burning desire for justice -- for humans and androids alike. Evelyn Forbes: a genuinely good person with a bleeding heart.

They continued on in silence for a little while, the radio their only background noise, before he turned his attention to the music.

“Do you mind if I change the station?” he asked.

“That depends,” she hedged, “what’re you looking for?”

“How about jazz?”

_ “Jazz?” _ she echoed, disbelieving. “You wanna put _ jazz _in my car?”

Well, that was a reaction, he noted. “Why not? I’ve...taken a liking to it.”

“Uh-huh,” she offered dryly. “That’s a solid ‘no’. We go by traditional rules in this car: driver picks.”

“So if I want to hear jazz, all I have to do is be the driver?” he checked.

“Yeah, but before you get smart with me, you’re not on my insurance,” she hinted.

He tilted his head. “Why is this an issue with you?”

She hesitated, and once again he got the impression she wanted to scream.

Instead, she offered, “I have my reasons.”

That was the most curt response she’d given him to date. Curious, he made a note of her behavior, concluding she must have personal issues -- related to jazz? Humans tended to have interwoven memories, he knew; merely listening to a genre of music related to an unwanted memory could cause distress.

Perhaps Evelyn had unwanted memories, then.

Silence descended again, and after a few minutes of this (he’d been looking for signals from her but she was as relaxed and alert as always; it was getting really weird) she suddenly perked up.

“Right -- hang on, I forgot to pick up something,” she told him, steering the car into a roadside parking space.

As she got out, Connor -- startled -- checked, “Do you need me to come with you?”

“No, it’s fine -- I’ll be back in a minute,” she assured him. She left the car running, though, her keys in the ignition, and as she opened her door...she tapped the radio’s touchpad.

Jazz music played as she stepped out, shutting the door behind her. Heartened, he watched her hurry across the street and into a general store. The upbeat tunes, interwoven with soft vocals, was beautiful to him, and had an oddly relaxing effect. He found himself leaning back in his seat, eyes closed, just listening to the music.

It painted scenes in his mind -- not fully formed and not anything like reality -- that he found...breathtaking.

All too soon it was over, the driver door opening and wrenching him out of his reverie. Evelyn took her seat -- and offered him a pair of folded aviators.

He took them hesitantly, a sense of awe overtaking him. Was this...a gift? His first ever, he thought, giving Evelyn a look of disbelief.

“What’s this?” he asked, still not quite believing it.

“A present,” she answered. “A small thing, but...just the first of many, I hope.”

He didn’t have the words for this. “Thank you,” he offered, unsure how to truly express what it meant. Then, as a second thought came to him, he said, “I probably won’t wear them, though. They could disrupt my scans.”

“That’s fine, you don’t have to wear them,” she told him. “Just think of it as a...reminder. Why you came here, I mean.”

He nodded, accepting that. “Thank you,” he repeated. “Truly, Evelyn. I don’t...have a way to express it,” he confessed. “Or to repay it.”

“Oh, that part’s easy,” she replied, smirking. “Just keep being cool.”

_ Cool? _ So, wait, no -- she thought he was _ cool? _ Damn it, that was even harder to figure out! What was he supposed to say?

“You look like there should be smoke coming out of your ears,” she noted.

“You’re hilarious,” he retorted.

“There he is!” she crowed, giving him a mock punch to the shoulder. “Just keep being just like that,” she framed him between her fingers, “and you don’t have to worry about paying me back the $24.56 those cost me.” 

He shook his head, laughing. And, because at this point he couldn’t resist the idea, he broke the tag on the glasses and slipped them into place. Giving her a smile, he asked, “How do I look?”

She hesitated, thinking, then said, “Like you belong.”

He was _ pretty _ sure something was grinding in his hardware. Getting praise, teasing, affection, and now acceptance -- it was a lot to handle. He wanted to be ‘cool’, like she said, to just relax and maybe strike a pose for effect, but couldn’t think of anything. He was just too...overwhelmed.

And then Evelyn went ahead and made it even worse.

“Welcome to L.A., detective,” she said, smiling.

Yep, he decided then. He loved it here.


	5. Nevarre

**Rating:** PG-13 (swearing) 

* * *

* * *

* * *

A little over halfway into their drive, Forbes’ computer chimed, a synthetic voice saying, “Captain Guerrero,” as her computer displayed the image of a phone. 

She pressed a button on the steering wheel with her thumb, then said, “Forbes.” 

From the computer, the captain’s voice came through. “Connor there, too?” 

“Yes,” Connor answered. 

There was a brief pause before Guerrero began, “Good work today. We just got Baker checked in.” 

Connor wasn’t surprised she’d made it there before them; Forbes had opted to take the long way, giving him a mini-tour on the way back. 

“But,” Guerrero was saying, “we need more evidence.” 

More? “We have evidence, and her own words,” Connor pointed out. 

“Yeah, I have the recording -- she said she made Nevarre pay, not how,” Guerrero argued. “A lawyer would argue everything is circumstantial.” 

Excellent point. 

“We need to put her at the scene. Go to the apartment,” he directed, “see what you can find.” 

“Yes, sir,” the detectives answered. Another chime informed him that the call had ended. 

Giving Connor a look, Forbes said, “At least it’s on the way.” 

“Works out for me,” he replied. “I wanted to see the crime scene anyway.” 

“Right -- and Montgomery’s,” she added. “If what we find at Nevarre’s is good enough, we can head right over.” 

He calculated the route, determining it to be a two-hour trip to get from Nevarre’s apartment to Montgomery’s. Quite the trek, that. Depending on how long they were at Nevarre’s it might be lunch time by the time they arrived. 

“You might need to take an early lunch,” he suggested. 

“I’m not worried,” she replied, “I have all these delicious snack packs in the car.” 

The _ thirium? _ “Sure, you could eat those,” he intoned, “if you wanted to _ die.” _

She chuckled. “Party pooper,” she chided. 

That pulled a laugh out of him. 

“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” she told him. “I can miss a lunch once in a while.” 

“I’m actually surprised Montgomery’s estate is within your jurisdiction. It’s so far away,” he pointed out. 

“Technically, that zone is in no one’s jurisdiction,” she explained, “but Montgomery’s primary home and job are both in L.A., so the case came to us.” 

“So that was his second home,” Connor concluded, “and it’s in a police dead zone?” That was like _ asking _ for crimes to occur there. 

...Which might be just the point, he thought. Lawyers weren’t exactly known for being spotless, after all. Maybe Montgomery got himself into some trouble with some much more dangerous people... 

“‘Fraid so,” Forbes agreed. “Place like that is begging for no-gooders.” 

“Why wasn’t that area included in any districts?” he asked. 

“We asked that question, too,” she assured him. “City Hall said it was a mix-up -- an oversight. My guess? Montgomery was hip-deep in something and that was his safe house,” she suggested. “Maybe he even pulled strings to keep it off the grid.” 

“That would explain why his laptop was missing,” Connor said, thinking out loud. “If he got in trouble and had criminal ties, the criminals would want to remove all evidence of it.” 

“You know what I’m thinking right now?” she said then. “Hidden cameras. If this theory holds and Montgomery was involved with criminals, there’s no way he wouldn’t have cameras in every room of that house, least of all his study.” 

He _ had _ found it odd that the nearest camera had been the hall... “We just have to find it,” he concluded. 

Forbes gave him a look, a cross between stun and revelation. “Tell me you didn’t just come up with solutions to _ both _ of my dead-end murders in one day. Tell me,” she pressed. 

He wouldn’t lie. “I might’ve,” he allowed, “it really depends on what we find in Montgomery’s home.” 

“After we double-check Nevarre’s,” she added. “Oh, and look: we’re here.” 

He glanced out the window, noting the towering apartment building. Fourteen stories, he counted; Nevarre’s apartment was 712. Only five days since the murder -- it should still be cordoned off. 

It was, they found. The digital police tape was still up across the door. Pressing her thumb against the device’s touchpad granted access, though, the door sliding open for them. 

She gestured Connor enter as she stepped aside, saying, “Have at it. I’ll wait here.” 

Nodding, he slipped past her, getting his bearings. Hall to the bedroom to his left, living room to the right, kitchen ahead...and there was the bloodstained carpet where Karl had breathed his last. Some depression remained, most of it cemented in place from the blood. 

Connor strode around the room, picking up what details he could. Scratches on the walls, scuffs in the kitchen’s flooring, unwashed dishes in the sink, notes on a corkboard...but signs of Helen Baker? None. 

No -- there couldn’t be _ none _. She must have touched something if she were here. Retracing his steps, he looked for fingerprints, starting with the door handle and closest walls. 

Unless Helen had come here looking to commit murder, the chances of her wearing gloves was slim. And her broken arm _ had _ bled, he reminded himself; surely some of her blood had gotten _ somewhere _ in this apartment. 

That was the problem, though -- both of them had bled. There was a chance that _ her _ blood had been mistaken for _ his _. Considering how little of it there would’ve been, too, how the bat hadn’t had a trace of it and with her long-sleeve shirt absorbing the excess...it would be easy for the investigators to simply miss taking a sample of hers. 

Kneeling down by the initial scuffle, he examined the remains of the blood. Gunshots are messy -- Karl’s blood was everywhere, droplets reaching the ceiling, the floor, even the kitchen tile. With the blood dried, too, he couldn’t take a sample. 

...Unless he wet it. 

“How’s it going in there?” Forbes checked. 

He glanced up, looking her way. “Still looking for blood samples,” he told her. “I was thinking if I introduce some water, I could wet the dry blood and analyze it.” 

She paused, thinking, then checked, “Hang on -- what? You need wet blood to analyze it? Analyze, how?” 

“I can analyze samples in real time,” he explained. “All I need is for it to be wet enough to be picked up by my tongue.” 

Startled, she replied, “Whoa -- your tongue? So you -- lick shit, and that’s how that works?” 

“Yes.” She still looked shocked, so he went on, “I didn’t choose to do it this way. You’ll just have to deal with it.” 

“Uh-huh.” She looked away, exhaled slow, then checked, “So I take it you didn’t find prints?” 

“Not yet.” 

She paused, thinking, then said, “I’m going to make a call. Let me know if you find anything.” 

“Got it.” He rose, headed for the kitchen, and retrieved a cup, filling it with water. Then, half-aware of Forbes talking on her phone from the hall outside, returned to the bloodstains. 

He proceeded to spend the next several minutes working fluid into individual drops of blood, then testing them, getting failure after failure. 

Maybe Helen _ hadn’t _ lost any blood in here, he admitted. 

Then, excited, Forbes called out, “Connor! I just got through talking to Helen. Guess what she had to say?” 

Attention diverted, he looked up, then crossed over to his partner. Considering he’d been working on possible blood evidence and the last thing she’d asked about were fingerprints, he suspected that was the subject. 

“She touched something?” he tried. 

“She did!” Forbes confirmed, grinning. “I asked her about some of her favorite things in Karl’s place and she said she often just had to hug his trophies.” She nodded at the display in question, declaring Nevarre’s several 5th-and-higher amateur tennis trophies. 

Connor strode right towards it, pulling the glass doors open. He didn’t touch any for fear of smudging the prints, scanning each one in turn. Of the seven trophies in the display, he found Helen’s prints on five of them. 

He also noted one was missing. It was faint, but there was a thin layer of dust on the shelves, and one of them had a dust-free oval on it. 

As Forbes joined him, he said, “Her prints are on five of these -- and one’s missing.” He gestured the spot. 

She leaned in for a closer look, then gave a soft laugh. “Damn -- I’m shocked you could even tell. There’s hardly a difference. But, then,” she added, turning to him, “this is literally what you were designed to do, wasn’t it?” 

It was, yes. It was just his luck that he found detective work rewarding. 

Opting not to reply to that, instead he said, “We need to check her apartment for the missing trophy.” 

Forbes shook her head. “It was already swept. They found the blue shirt,” she told him. 

“But they didn’t find the trophy?” he checked. “We need it to put her here at the time of death.” 

“No mention. I’ll check,” she assured him. “Gimme a minute.” She stepped out again, phone in hand and dialing before she’d made it out. 

He found it interesting that she wasn’t asking _ him _ to make those calls. He could -- and she knew it. He could handle multiple calls at once, in fact, and while otherwise occupied. He wondered if she’d forgotten, if she was just trying to be polite, or if she simply preferred to handle her own work herself. Forgetfulness, courtesy, or pride -- which was it? 

What he knew of her said it was likely courtesy. 

Since he didn’t have anything else he needed to check, he listened in, syncing with her phone to hear both sides of the conversation -- because why not, really? 

Two rings, then, “Mullaney, this is evidence.” 

“Detective Forbes,” she replied. 

“Didn’t you just call a second ago?” 

“New info,” she told him. “Was a trophy logged along with Baker’s shirt? It should be for tennis.” 

Mullaney hummed and whistled as he searched, concluding, “That’s a negative.” 

“Okay, thanks. FYI though, you might be logging one soon here.” 

“Noted. Bye.” 

She said her goodbye, then turned to Connor. 

Before she could open her mouth, he said, “I was listening. To Baker’s?” 

She blinked, surprised, then began, “Uh...yeah. Looks like. How’d you listen to my call?” she checked as they left the apartment. 

“I synced with it,” he explained, pausing to make sure the door closed behind them. “It’s...one of my features.” 

She gave a scowl. “It’s like you’re _ trying _ to show off or something.” 

“I can promise you that’s not it,” he assured her. “It’s just me doing what I can. No offense intended.” 

“So you’re _ effortlessly _ showing off,” she deduced. “That’s worse.” 

Awkward, he wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I’ll...try to be more...mediocre?” he tried. 

She chuckled. “Chill, I’m just teasing,” she told him. Giving him a smirk, she said, “Keep doing as you do, Connor. From where I’m standing, it’s pretty cool.” 

And that’s when he realized how much he valued her approval: when he thought he didn’t have it anymore. That was an interesting thing to learn about himself. 

Then, tilting her head at him, she asked, “Speaking of from where I’m standing, how tall are you?” 

“Six foot,” he answered. When she stared at him, shocked, he corrected, “183 centimeters?” 

“Okay,” she ventured, “I’d like to lodge a complaint.” 

Recoiling a little, he demanded, “For what?” 

“My partner is literally half foot taller than me,” she laughed. “Jesus, I feel _ tiny_.” 

“My apologies?” he offered. 

She gave a strangled laugh. “No, it’s fine -- I just need to eat more Wheaties,” she joked. 

That wouldn’t help at all and they both knew it, but he opted not to say that. She was obviously teasing again, and he couldn’t keep falling for them. 

Instead, he tried to tease her back, saying, “I don’t know, I prefer you being small. The contrast is fun. If you got any taller then people wouldn’t look so spooked by me anymore.” 

“Hah, they’re only spooked by you cause I’m so unassuming,” she corrected. 

“That was my point. I like being the intimidating one,” he told her. 

She glanced at him sideways. “Are you saying I can’t be intimidating?” 

“Well, I’ve only known you for a day, but -- yes, that’s what I’m saying.” 

She laughed. “Oh, I’ma show you,” she warned as they left the building. 

“Bring it,” he challenged. 

Laughing harder, she choked out, “Just wait till Halloween, big boy. Then you’ll see.” 

“I’m shaking,” he replied dryly. They’d reached her car, and he stopped by the passenger-side door. 

Shaking her head, she ordered, “Get in the car.” 

“Ma’am,” he retorted, smirking. 

She stood there for another second after he’d gotten in -- composing herself, he assumed -- before getting in, herself. She had a smile on her face, amused, though she shook her head and put on a neutral expression as she started up the car. 

It struck him as oddly similar to how androids swapped expressions, but then, there was nothing saying humans didn’t do it, too. From what he’d seen of Evelyn so far, she had excellent control of herself; focusing her emotions was probably something she did on a daily basis. 

The parallels between being a law enforcement officer and being an android were becoming strikingly common. No wonder law enforcement and the armed forces formerly had the highest concentration of androids. The training (or programming, as Forbes had helpfully pointed out) humans received in these careers basically made them react the way androids used to do: with cold logic. 

Now that he thought about it, too, Evelyn _ had _ gone to military school. Maybe she’d undergone training, then, and retained it a full decade later. It would explain a lot about her -- including how she always seemed to be relaxed even when visibly irritated. 

It made sense. That mystery unraveled, his profile on her updated again, concluding that her time in military school had probably been the most personality-defining years of her life. Control, confidence, determination, justice -- she had these traits in spades, and all were staples of militaristic training. 

Leaving his assessment where it was, he refocused, reminding himself of the most important task right now: finding that trophy. 

He checked, “You found gunpowder residue on Nevarre, correct?” 

“Correct,” she agreed. “I guess you couldn’t see that in the crime scene photos?” 

“No. What was the estimated distance?” 

“Can’t remember exactly -- within two feet,” she answered. 

“And the wound was horizontal, indicative of a shorter assailant?” 

“Correct.” 

“So, we have Baker’s wound, indicating a struggle, we have her prints on his trophies, her firearm should correctly match the spent bullet, and her own words confirming she knew Nevarre,” he worked out. 

“With the shirt,” she agreed, “if it matches the fibers on the bat, we can prove that he struck her, and with the hospital records, that it happened within an hour of Nevarre’s death. Now all that’s left, really, would be to exclude the possibility of someone else’s involvement. We’ll need to examine the gun for foreign prints.” 

“Make sure that only her hand touched it,” he said, thinking out loud. 

“Oh!” she added, snapping her fingers. “And the ashtray! We probably won’t need it, but every bit of evidence we can get would put pressure on her to fold.” 

“And ensure a court victory if she doesn’t confess,” he reminded her. 

Nodding, she puzzled it over, then went on, “We need this to be concrete. She’s obviously not fully there, so a good lawyer could argue insanity and claim any confession on her part was coerced. And if she gets acquitted -- double jeopardy.” 

“So we make sure we have everything first,” he concluded, “before confronting her. Does she already have a lawyer?” 

“When I talked to her, she said she’d called one but he hadn’t arrived,” she informed him. “He’ll definitely be there by the time we get back, though.” 

“The less time he has to speak with her, the better,” Connor suggested. “No time to waste.” 

* * *

Baker’s home was a rat nest, Connor found. Bags of garbage that had never been taken out were in the kitchen, piles of old laundry were everywhere, and mostly-empty containers from a dozen take-out places littered everything. At this point he was honestly surprised that he wasn’t finding actual rats. There were certainly plenty of flies. 

It was a miracle that the investigation team had found the blue shirt, he admitted. 

As soon as the door was open, Forbes recoiled, covering her nose and cringing. “Jesus -- can we health code apartments?!” she blurted. 

It was a good thing he couldn’t feel disgust, he thought. He could smell just fine, but there was nothing in his programming to tie the scents with any negative or positive sensations. He could only imagine how hard this was on Forbes. 

“If it’s too much, you can wait out here,” he told her. “I’ll find the trophy.” 

She nodded, replying, “No, I’m not running from this. I’ll just...deal.” 

Accepting that, he said, “Just let me know if you need an air break.” 

She chuckled. “Will do.” She shuddered then, bringing her sleeve up to her nose. “Ugh, it’s making my eyes sting.” 

An unfortunate side-effect, to be sure. He strode inside then, analyzing what he could see -- and getting a rising sense of pity with each snippet of information. Chinese takeout, 6-7 days old; vomit stain on a shirt, 12-14 days; maggots in a box of old noodles; unwashed dishes in the sink, so old there was a layer of partly-decomposed food an inch deep, also infested with maggots; expired food in the refrigerator dating back as far as seven months... 

How could a human live like this? 

Well, he reasoned, she did say she’d been living with Nevarre. Maybe there’d been some truth to that -- maybe she’d had a cubby for herself somewhere, in the walls or cupboard or the ceiling. There’d been many such cases over the last half-century. 

Forbes seemed to be on the same page, saying, “There’s no way she was living here all the time. She had to have a second place.” 

“Nevarre’s?” Connor suggested. 

“Has to be. Much as I hate driving in circles,” she said, “I think I should go back to his apartment. Look for signs of a stowaway.” 

He gave her a nod. “Do it. I’ll call you if I find the trophy.” 

“Okay. Here,” she added, pulling out her wallet. She offered him a pair of twenties, explaining, “In case you need a taxi.” 

“Got it.” He pocketed the money, then teased, “Can I pay this back by being cool, too?” 

She smiled. “Until you’re actually being paid, consider everything I give you a donation.” Inclining her head, she finished, “Afterwards, though? We can work that out on a case-by-case basis.” 

Generous to a fault, he thought, even as he agreed to her terms. He wondered if the thirium in her car counted as donations, should he need it. He would bet so -- a whole $40. 

She took her leave then, heading back to Nevarre’s. Luckily the commute wasn’t too bad -- 35 minutes, if the traffic fared well -- so she shouldn’t be too long, and with luck, he’d have found the trophy by then and could join up with her. 

Looking around at the apartment again, he admitted that luck was not on his side. 

After taking a tour through the apartment, the cramped living room and tight hall and minuscule bedroom, he decided the smartest thing to do was take off his jacket and roll up his sleeves before touching anything. He didn’t exactly have extra clothes, after all, and this place...

He located _ mold _ in numerous places, even a few mushrooms under the sink. 

At least Baker had dish soap in the place so he could wash his hands afterwards. That was a relief. 

He found a coat hook by the door and hung up his jacket there, then made a task list as he rolled up his sleeves. What was the most likely place for a pack-rat to hide a trophy of someone she believed she loved but had just murdered? Under the mattress? 

He checked there first, immediately getting something brown and sticky on his fingers. He identified it as barbecue sauce, confusing him as to how the hell she’d gotten it between her mattress and box spring. It defied logic. 

Shaking his head, he lifted the mattress further, looking for torn fabric in both halves of the bed. He found several in the box spring -- it was torn badly -- but checking inside each one revealed no trophies. 

She did have wads of -- somehow -- damp money and narcotics, though. Meth, he concluded. No wonder she’d had such delusions. He logged the items, alerting Guerrero of the discovery, and was informed the investigative team would be sent back to collect the contraband. 

In the meantime he washed the sauce off his fingers, then got back to searching. The closet was shockingly clean -- compared to everything else -- with only a pile of old shoes and several hanging clothes on hangers. It was, however, infested with spider webs. 

Had _ nothing _ in this apartment escaped humiliation? 

A box on the shelf revealed a collection of knickknacks, including Lego pieces, car figurines, string, buttons, magnets, cords to various obsolete devices, even a remote to a television she didn’t have. No trophy, though. 

He put it back and moved on. The bathroom was even more tightly crammed than the bedroom, the bathtub practically sharing space with the toilet -- bad design. A layer of grime circled the tub, the walls, the floor; he opted not to check the toilet, though he did check the tank behind it. 

Badly rusted on the inside but otherwise free of any trophies. Great. 

Finding nothing else that stood out, he retreated to the kitchen. He checked the pile of trash bags, each cupboard and cabinet, the freezer, the oven -- still no trophies. The small space above the cabinets were covered in old spiderwebs but were otherwise untouched, barely even any crumbs having found their way up here. 

The living room was the last chance, then. He checked the couch first, checking the cushions, the backrests, the underside. Like the bed, the fabric had been shredded, but other than another bag of contraband -- crack -- and a pipe, there was nothing else there. 

The single bookshelf and entertainment stand for the television were similarly disappointing. There were no cracks in the walls, no hidden compartments, not even a safe. 

The trophy wasn’t here. 

By the time he’d finished, washed off his hands, and redressed, the investigators had arrived. He directed them to the stashes he’d found, then stepped out, puzzling out what to do now. 

His gaze landed on Baker’s vehicle. 

Maybe she’d left it there? He turned his attention back to the trio of officers, calling, “Will one of you come with me, please?” 

The three humans glanced at each, shared a shrug, and a younger hispanic male made his way over. 

Officer Valez, Connor recognized. “I’m going to check Baker’s car.” 

Valez gestured him onwards. “Lead the way.” 

They strode over, and though Valez asked about the keys, Connor didn’t need them. He was still synced with the car; a simple directive got the doors open before they’d reached it. 

Valez was briefly stunned. “You do that?” he checked. 

“Yes.” Connor didn’t wait for the human to catch up, but ducked inside, examining everything. It was a mess here, too, though notably less so, adding weight to the theory that Baker simply hadn’t really been living at the apartment. Food wrappers and empty bags with traces of the drugs he’d already found were on the floor and stuffed into the cup holders. 

He checked the compartments first, finding one stuffed with numerous documents -- the car’s registration and proof of insurance, receipts from maintenance and tire warranties, late payment notices -- and the rest almost totally empty but for various tools. A wrench, a flashlight, a screwdriver...she obviously had no idea what to put in a vehicle. 

Coming up empty and growing frustrated, Connor had one lead left: the flooring. It was rolled up at one corner, the fabric worn, and he pulled it--

And there it was. The trophy was wedged between the vehicle’s frame, scuffed but clearly declaring Karl Nevarre winning 2nd place. 

Moving back, he gestured the trophy, letting Valez take a picture of it. 

Then, just to cement this into place, Connor picked it up and scanned it for prints. 

He got both Nevarre’s and Baker’s. 

_ Relief _. It’d been frustrating, but he’d succeeded. With Valez’s help, he bagged the object, then called Forbes. 

Two rings, then, “Forbes.” 

“Connor,” he replied. 

She immediately sounded more excited, saying, “Did you find it? Tell me you found it.” 

“I found it.” 

She sighed. “Praise be,” she said dryly. “You won’t believe what I’m standing in right now.” 

“A cubby just big enough for a person?” he tried. 

“Bingo. She made a bed out of a sleeping bag, four pillows and a blanket. A stick-on light is in here, too. She’d been living with Nevarre -- without his knowledge.” 

“How’d she get in and out of the apartment without anyone noticing?” he asked. 

“Still working that out. My guess? Window -- the fire escape. He probably never worried that someone would break in through the seventh-floor window. It was unlocked.” 

“Probably also how Helen escaped after murdering him,” he concluded. Then, thinking it through, he checked, “You said you were standing in it?” 

“Taking photos of everything, yeah,” she answered. 

“Have you touched anything?” 

“Only as necessary -- but I’m wearing gloves, don’t worry,” she told him. “Oh -- look at that,” she added, surprised. “Just found where she kept all her clean clothes.” 

This investigation was a literal mess, he realized. Out loud, he said, “Motive, means, and opportunity.” 

“She was living with him, she was angry at him, and I’m positive her gun is going to match the bullet,” Forbes replied. “I think we got this.” Then, more sharply, “Oho, Connor, I just hit the motherload.” 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“A fucking _ shrine _. There’s incense and shit. And...y’know what, I’m just going to send you a picture. Gimme a sec.” 

“Okay,” he replied, intrigued. What was in this shrine? 

A moment later and he got an image, and examining it showed him exactly what Forbes had been excited about. 

The image showed a crate acting as a small table, with fake flowers framing a candid image of Karl in a digital frame. The remains of a stick of incense was in a burner in front of it, ash covering a small doily that had obviously once held an object...oval-shaped...

...like the base of the trophy he’d just recovered. 

“You still there?” Forbes checked. 

“Yes,” he answered. 

“I think we just closed this case. It’s done.” 

“I agree. Should I come to the apartment?” 

“No need. I’ll be heading back to the precinct. I’ll meet you there,” she told him. “There’s a lot to log.” 

“Take as many pictures as you can,” he directed, “from every angle. It’ll help me reconstruct the events.” 

“Will do. See you soon, partner.” 

He was starting to love being called that. “You, too...partner,” he returned. 

The call ended then, and he headed back to Baker’s apartment to inform the team there what had been discovered. They looked surprised to hear that Forbes had found a secret cubby in Nevarre’s apartment, but agreed to head there next to log what they could. 

Though he told them that Forbes had already taken numerous photos (or was about to), they told Connor they were going to photograph everything anyway. Their cameras were made for it; her phone wasn’t. 

Fair point. 

He left them then, calling for a taxi. Like Detroit, they were unmanned, but unlike Detroit, they were all still functioning. Some of Detroit’s taxi services had gone down during the revolt and were still being repaired when he’d left. It seemed L.A.’s taxis had escaped any sort of damage. 

Good for him, then. 

Nevarre’s apartment, being closer to the precinct than Baker’s, meant that Forbes made it back before him. He found her in the break room, with a cup of instant noodles and bottle of water. 

He smirked. “Took my advice?” he checked, sitting across from her. 

She shrugged. “Early lunch sounds like a good idea, considering the trek we have in front of us. Getting to Montgomery’s estate is going to be...hard.” 

“You logged your photos already?” he asked. 

Nodding, she slid her phone over to him. “You’re welcome to check it out, yourself.” 

He would’ve preferred to be there, himself; it was easier to see prints in person than in images. He expected the investigation team would handle that, though. And, as he connected to the phone, scrolling through all relevant images, a sequence put itself together in his mind. 

The cubby was between the bedroom and kitchen, with a removable panel located behind Nevarre’s dresser. It was no wonder Karl hadn’t found it, then; Baker would have been keeping the dresser in place while he was there. The carpet was worn where it would have been moved, damage occurring so slowly it was incapable of being seen. 

It was fascinating, really. She’d been living with Karl for four months, she’d said. Eating his food, using his bathroom, spying on him while he slept -- and more? The images showed a small rack with bathing supplies and another with detergent for clothing. 

It was opposed to the wreck of her apartment to such a degree that he was now thinking she’d had a squatter in her home and hadn’t known. Maybe the mess hadn’t been hers, then. If she’d been with Nevarre for months, then maybe she hadn’t been home in that time. 

Aloud, he said, “I think someone else had been squatting in her apartment.” 

Forbes glanced up, surprised. “You think?” 

“Yes. Probably ran off when she showed up. I didn’t find any other DNA,” he told her, “but I also hadn’t been looking for any.” 

She nodded, thinking, then suggested, “If that’s so, then maybe the drugs weren’t hers. Maybe we just opened up a new case by closing Nevarre’s.” 

“She’ll need to be tested for drugs, if she hasn’t already,” he said. “If she comes back clean, then we can hand it over to Narcotics.” 

“MVP,” she hinted, smiling at him. 

He smiled back. Then, getting up from his seat, he added, “I’m going to check Montgomery’s evidence again. See if I missed anything.” 

“Anything that hints where a hidden camera might be,” she said, “would be golden right about now.” 

Noted. “Enjoy your meal,” he said as he retreated. 

He heard her reply, “Yeah, not really,” as he got out of earshot. Amused, he made a mental note that she wasn’t fond of instant noodles. He doubted he’d need to use this information, but he was determined to keep up a good relationship with her and every little bit helped. 

_ Just don’t ever buy instant noodles for her, _ he concluded. Easy enough. But that thought led to another, and he found himself wondering what she _ did _ like to eat. So far he’d only seen her eat a chicken wrap, and she hadn’t commented on its taste so he wasn’t sure how it ranked for her. 

Another little puzzle to work out. He had no problem with that; not only was he designed to ace puzzles, but he’d come to find them enjoyable, too. He’d figure out Forbes sooner or later. 

He suspected it’d be a very rewarding experience.


	6. Montgomery

**Rating:** R (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

Checking the Montgomery evidence again proved to be a fruitless endeavor. Not because there wasn’t plenty to look over, but rather because it added nothing new to Connor’s assessment. Shattered glass, blood splatter and analyses, prints recovered from the scene (all Montgomery’s), the shell casings from the bullets, even damaged books from the onslaught -- nothing gave anything new. 

They would have to visit the site after all. 

Forbes was done with her early lunch by the time Connor returned (he’d also taken a look at the new Nevarre evidence, namely Helen’s shirt, and concluded it fit with the rest). Other than bumping into a few other officers, none of whom said a word to him beyond basic greetings, nothing notable occurred -- until the two partners were on their way out, that is. 

An angry shout made its way over to them, and they paused to listen, alert. 

It took a second for Forbes to comment, “I think Ulrich just found your score. Let’s go,” she urged, popping the door open with her hip. 

“Wait, I want to see this,” he replied, gesturing for her to stop. 

“...Are you sure?” she prompted, amused but cautious. “Might be funnier to let him stew while we work.” 

That was a thought, he admitted, but he was conflicted by the idea. He didn’t want to sow discord, but he did want to know how Ulrich would respond to losing top score. It would help his officer profiles, for one thing. 

“No, I would rather see this through,” he told her. 

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

It sounded more like she was talking to herself than to him, so he didn’t respond. Instead, he headed back towards the main area, waiting. Forbes joined him, arms crossed, leaning against a partition. And, within moments, Ulrich stormed into the area, searching. 

Connor gave a one-handed wave, knowing the lieutenant was looking for him. 

James Ulrich was a finely-groomed male, 5’9”, 240lbs of muscle. Light brown hair, buzz cut, blue eyes, handsome features -- a very typical white male officer, Connor deduced. Right now, however, Ulrich was aggravated, seeking his target. 

The moment he laid eyes on Connor, he straightened up and demanded, “You! What are you trying to prove?” 

“Prove?” Connor echoed. “Nothing. I just ran the course, same as everyone.” 

“Bullshit! You were trying to show me up, huh?” Ulrich came closer, clearly trying to get in Connor’s face though his height disallowed it. 

It was almost amusing. 

“Trying to prove that androids are superior?” Ulrich challenged him. “That what you’re after, you--”

“James,” Evelyn interrupted, calm. His attention snapped to her, but there seemed to be some old conflict between them, because they just stared at one another. 

A battle of wills, Connor wondered? Were they arguing through their thoughts, weighing their options? It was fascinating to witness, he found. What were they saying to one another, right now? Their expressions could only suggest so much: Evelyn was calm but stern, Ulrich was irritated but restrained.

Yet, even as Connor noticed this, he could see the tension between them growing stronger. They were reaching a breaking point -- through a _ stare _.

Human behavior was incredible sometimes.

“Sticking up for the little guy, Forbes?” Ulrich bit out at length.

She shrugged. “As needed. This, though -- this is just for fun,” she added, gesturing him. Then, when he made to step towards her, she warned, “Careful. You’re oh-for-ten. Do you really want to make it eleven?”

That intrigued Connor. Was she saying she and Ulrich had fought before, and she’d won -- ten times out of ten? How interesting. Though it made sense for a detective to have combat skills, he hadn’t expected the five-foot-five Evelyn Forbes to be that capable -- especially against someone who was bigger, stronger, and higher-ranked than she was.

Now he needed to see her in action, assess her skill. If it’s enough to take down the much bigger and heavier Ulrich, then it would be a sight, indeed.

Ulrich wasn’t overly deterred by the warning, but Connor _ did _ notice him halt his advance towards her, instead easing back a fraction. But rather than look irritated by her challenge, he swapped to amused.

“Sounds like someone wants to go back into cold case files,” he noted.

She narrowed her gaze. “Using your rank to dish out punishment, Ulrich? That’s a disciplinary warning,” she hinted.

“Worth it,” he retorted.

“It won’t be when one the state’s best detectives isn’t available to solve new cases,” she told him.

That seemed to get through to him, and Connor saw him visibly relent. Then, swapping tactics, James bit out, “Fine, I’ll make you a deal, _ kid _. Keep your nose out of my business and I won’t stick yours back into city hall’s basement.”

“Gladly -- as long as _ you _ remember that my partner’s business counts as mine, too,” she sent back, firm.

“You serious?” he demanded, irritated. Then, gesturing Connor, he snapped at her, “It tried to show us up, all of us--”

Connor tried not to feel annoyed at the way James equated him with an object, reminding himself that android freedom was new and until _ very _ recently all androids were seen that way. Humans would need time to adjust their perceptions. He was going to be hearing ‘it’ a lot in the future.

He intervened, correcting, “That wasn’t my intent. I didn’t know what score I would get, I had never run the course before.”

“_ You _ don’t get to talk back to me,” Ulrich told him. “You’re not even on the payroll.”

That caught Forbes’ attention and she straightened up. “You know about that? How?”

Connor said to her, “I imagine it wasn’t kept secret. In any case, I’m not ashamed, so don’t worry about it -- and you can’t insult me with it,” he added to Ulrich.

The human glowered. “I’m not interested in insulting a glorified toaster,” he spat, “I’m interested in finding out why you decided to try rubbing our faces in your bullshit superiority!”

Forbes perked up then, glancing at Connor. Gesturing James, she said, “Did you catch that? In one breath he equated you with a toaster, and in the next, straight-up called you superior. I wonder,” she added towards the lieutenant, “does that make you less than a toaster, Ulrich?”

Yep, Connor caught that -- though it was clear Ulrich hadn’t. The human was red-faced and sputtering at the realization, struggling for a response.

“Or,” Forbes went on, “are you saying a toaster could run the course and get a higher score than all of us? I mean, in this comparison, are we saying toasters are insanely capable or are the rest of us just that pathetic? This is a huge philosophical quandary, I’m really not sure how to hack at it.”

Connor offered, “Toasters physically can’t run the course, so logic would suggest it’s the latter. Unless, of course, the toaster in this theory had an upgrade, something that would let it launch toast at high velocity as well as a magazine of some form--”

And Ulrich snapped. “Both of you, shut the fuck up!”

Connor couldn’t resist responding, “You shouldn’t end sentences with prepositions. It’s bad grammar.”

“Prepositions aren’t words to be ending sentences with,” Forbes agreed.

That pulled a laugh out of Connor; he hadn’t expected that.

Ulrich looked close to having an aneurysm. He bellowed, “Fucking infuriating, both of you! I’ll see to it _ both _ of you fucking smart-asses get sent so deep in dead files you’ll never--”

The captain chose then to intervene, calling out, “Ulrich, Forbes! What’s going on?”

The older latino male was standing in his office doorway, eying the scene with clear disapproval. Everyone else, Connor noted, was hesitant to move or say anything; he got the impression Ulrich and Forbes were rivals and all the other officers avoided getting involved in their spats.

The lieutenant forcibly relaxed a fraction, easing back. He stared at Forbes for another second, then glared at Connor, answering, “Nothing, captain.”

Evelyn, relaxed and amused, confirmed, “Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought,” Guerrero replied. “Back to your duties, everyone. Show’s over.”

Ulrich backed off without another word, but his face bore a warning: this wasn’t over.

Connor couldn’t help worrying. He wondered what would come of this -- probably nothing serious, he hoped, even as he recognized that Ulrich was barely tethered. Forbes had been right; Ulrich was _ very _ defensive of his score.

“Connor,” Guerrero called then, getting the android’s attention. “I’d like to see you in my office.”

Well. That probably wasn’t good.

He gave Forbes a glance, reading her; she ran a hand over her hair, seeming to check for strays. Noticing him, she said, “I’ll be in the break room.”

Noted. “I won’t be long,” he assured her.

She gave a thumb’s up, then retreated.

Connor took stock of the room as he headed for the captain’s office, checking on the attention the three of them had been given and the reactions therein. Everyone had been curious, he could see, though a few officers had clearly ignored the altercation to focus on their work, primarily the three interviewing civilians when the argument had occurred. By now everyone was getting back to work, as directed.

The civilians weren’t so professional, outright staring as Connor strode through the room. This was bound to get out, he concluded, though what would come of it he couldn’t say. Putting it aside, he entered the office, ready to receive bad news or a warning -- or both.

“Sir?” he asked once he was within. 

Captain Guerrero looked irritated, but he kept a relatively calm demeanor. “Connor,” he began, “I understand you made an account in our training center last night.” 

“Yes,” he replied easily.

“Without permission,” the greying male intoned.

Oh.

“Yes,” Connor confirmed. No point to lying.

Guerrero was quiet for a moment before saying, “That training center -- it wasn’t built for androids. It was built for humans. And it needs to stay that way. I’ve had your account removed and score erased,” he told Connor.

And Connor might’ve been offended -- if he didn’t have his memory as positive proof of his run.

“I understand,” he replied.

“Everyone already knows about your score,” the captain continued, “so what I need from you now is to not bring it up. Give it time to die.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And from now on if you want to create accounts or otherwise change things, you need to make a request first -- if I’m not available, seek out the officer with the next rank.”

Understandable restrictions, Connor admitted. And he didn’t care so much about those things anyway. As long as he was allowed to be on the field he didn’t mind having limited access. Besides which, if he really wanted to he could hack every server in here. He was only as limited as he chose to allow.

“Of course, sir,” he answered.

Guerrero seemed a little taken aback by Connor’s easy acceptance, but he went on, “In the meantime, keep up the good work and I’ll have you on salary within the month. Go ahead and tell Forbes that so she’ll get off my back about it,” he added with a note of irritation.

That caught the android’s attention. Checking his timeline, he noted that Forbes would’ve made it back here at least ten minutes before him; what had she done in that time? Picked a fight with Guerrero?

Damn it, he’d told her not to worry about him! Frustrated, he replied, “I will, sir. If it makes a difference, I told her not to bring it up.”

Guerrero gave a laugh. “Trust me -- and you’ll learn this soon -- she doesn’t follow orders so well. Good luck dealing with her. Dismissed,” he finished.

Connor gave him a little, respectful bow, saying, “Have a nice day, sir,” as he left.

The captain gave an indistinct wave.

Good enough, he supposed. Then, heading right towards the break room, he sought out Forbes, finding her talking to another officer in low, hushed tones.

Officer Gilly Deyton, Connor deduced. Light orange hair, brown eyes, 5′2″, 146lbs -- slightly overweight for her size, but she seemed perfectly healthy. A warning popped up when he scanned her, though, informing him that she had asthma.

Noted.

“--be insane,” Deyton was saying. “You know how he is, just let him have his victories.”

“Boy’s gotta learn how to lose,” Forbes told her. “Keep handing him trophies on a silver platter and he’s going to--”

“I’m serious, just leave him alone,” Deyton advised. “I mean do you really want to get on his bad side -- especially over an android?”

Well. Ouch. As they talked, he held back, listening in. Deyton couldn’t see him, but he expected Forbes had taken notice of him already, though she wasn’t showing it.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ do,” Forbes replied, irritated. “This is the future, Gilly -- and fighting it means getting left behind. Call me crazy--”

“You are,” Deyton noted dryly.

Forbes ignored that. “--but in my crazy way, I’m trying to _ help _ Ulrich to keep up. I just don’t want a guy with so much potential to end up on the streets with nothing cause he couldn’t get over his prejudice.”

“Well, you’re going to make things worse,” Deyton warned.

“I happen to believe this is one of those cases where things need to get worse before they get better.”

“Like a hangover?”

“Precisely. The world’s hangover,” Forbes concluded. “Spent the last decade in a drunken haze, and now we’re all waking up.”

That was an interesting perspective, Connor noted. He hadn’t thought of it like that before, but had humans fallen into a kind of stupor thanks to androids becoming so mainstream? If so, then by cause and effect alone, androids waking up meant humans were, too.

Waking up to find the world was not what they’d wanted and with little idea how to fix it.

Maybe Forbes was right, then -- saying that they needed androids to save themselves and their own planet. He’d need to think on that.

Since the conversation seemed at its end anyway, he chose then to reveal himself, greeting, “Forbes, Deyton,” as he entered the break room.

Deyton looked surprised. Forbes didn’t.

Then again, did she ever?

“Oh, uh, hi,” Deyton offered, tentative.

“My name is Connor,” he told her.

“Gilly Deyton -- you knew that,” she added to herself with a nervous laugh. “Uh, nice to meet you,” she said a little sharply.

His lips quirked in a smile. She was cute -- nervous and a little intimidated, he guessed. She probably had no idea how to go about talking to an awakened android.

“Likewise,” he responded, happy to find at least one more human who was civil. Then, to Forbes, he suggested, “Ready to go?”

“Yep. Can’t wait to see how you crack this case, too,” Forbes teased. She pushed off the counter she’d been leaning against, leading the way.

“In a literal sense,” he offered as he strode alongside her, “through forensics.”

“Hah. You’re a funny,” she retorted dryly.

He hadn’t really been trying, but he was getting the impression he was good at it anyway. Maybe he should put some effort into that...

* * *

The two-hour drive to Montgomery’s estate was mostly uneventful except for one phone call. It was Richard, Evelyn’s husband, and Connor picked up on stress -- from the both of them -- as they spoke.

It was not pleasant.

When the phone rang at first, declaring “Richard” as the caller, Evelyn had given the screen a long, lingering, conflicted look. She seemed to debate answering for a long while -- so opposed to how quickly she’d answered Guerrero when the captain had called that Connor was dumbfounded.

Why wasn’t she picking up for her own husband?

Then, after the sixth ring, she answered the call, saying, “Forbes.”

There was a pause on the other end, and it had Connor wondering if the male was offended. She hadn’t taken her husband’s name, he recalled; maybe she was throwing that in his face?

“Hello, darling,” the human responded after a moment.

Forbes’ body language suggested she was _ not _ his darling.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, and Connor noted how tightly she was gripping the steering wheel.

Reminded that she hadn’t been this tense when discussing what she believed to be the inevitable fall of humanity, he felt concerned. Why was this call affecting her worse than her own fatalistic views? What was going on between husband and wife?

Richard replied, “I, uh...I came to your precinct to invite you out to lunch. You weren’t here,” he explained.

“And I won’t be back for at least another four hours,” she told him. “You’ll have to survive another meal without me.”

There was a quiet sigh on the other line. Then, tentative, he went on, “How about dinner, then? I miss you,” he said, earnest.

_ I miss you? _ Connor thought, confused. They were married -- how could Richard miss her? Were things just going badly? Currently 63% of all marriages end in divorce, he knew, the numbers climbing by the year. This was Evelyn’s first marriage, according to his profile, which meant the odds of her divorcing was closer to 54%, but statistically that meant the chances were still very high.

Were they in the opening stages of a divorce?

She audibly huffed, her stress level rising. “That depends. Is there anything in particular you want to say during dinner?”

Richard hesitated, then replied more gruffly, “I don’t know -- how about you? Anything you want to say to me?”

“A few things,” she bit out, growing agitated. “None of which are polite to say in company.”

“You’re in company?” her husband checked.

“Have my partner sitting right next to me,” she answered. Glancing at Connor, she said, “Say ‘hi’ to Richard.”

“Hello,” Connor offered, though he was growing tense from this exchange, too. This probably wasn’t a good idea, speaking with her husband. He couldn’t see it ending well.

At that, he could hear Richard hissing between his teeth. The human growled, “Great -- another one, huh?”

“Don’t you start,” she warned.

_ What? _ Connor thought, bewildered.

“Start what? What did _ I _ start, Evelyn? Tell me,” Richard challenged.

“Oh, you fucking know,” she replied, incensed.

He was _ not _ accepting that, retorting, “Y’know what? I’m tired of you bringing up my sins -- how about we talk about yours?”

“Okay, goodbye,” she snapped, ending the call.

That was awkward. Connor was quiet for a moment, reading Forbes -- again, he caught a flicker of an alert as he scanned her, its appearance frustrating him; he ignored it for now -- and concluded that she was _ much _ more stressed than before.

“You’re holding the wheel very tensely,” he noted. “Would you like me to drive the rest of the way?”

“What? No,” she denied, snapping to attention at his comment. “Nobody drives my baby but me. I never even let Richard drive him,” she informed Connor.

“‘Him’?” he echoed.

“Yeah, ‘him’ -- his name’s Specter.”

“You named your car?”

“Yeah, why not? Guys do it all the time,” she shrugged. “Their cars, their trucks, their boats -- fair’s fair, so I named mine.”

Understandable. “I thought all vehicles were named after women, though,” he pointed out.

“_ Men _ do that,” she corrected. “But I’m not for that gendered b-s so I named mine something more ambiguous.”

“Even though you call it a ‘he’,” he noted.

“Well...maybe I’m also a little bitter about the whole thing,” she allowed.

He accepted that. “Why ‘Specter’?” he asked, curious.

“A couple of reasons,” she answered. “He’s silver, always been, that’s kinda ghostly. Plus this was my grandfather’s car, and he died before it was mine, so it’s a kind of homage, too. And lastly...ghost in the shell.”

“Ghost in the shell?” Connor echoed, confused. “What does that mean?”

She smirked, amused, and tossed him a look before turning her gaze back to the road. “The soul of the machine,” she said, ominous.

Startled, he pondered on that, and eventually decided to search for further information on his own. Most of the results that came up were about a comic and cartoon franchise -- mostly about cybernetics and androids in a futuristic setting. It wasn’t too different from reality, he admitted, but then humans had been exploring the concept of androids _ long _ before CyberLife had successfully created them. Science fiction was full of them.

Some things were bound to align.

What caught his attention was the idea of machines having souls -- in a very literal sense. Again, these were very common stories in literature, of some machine or another coming to life and becoming either helpful or homicidal. In either case the stories generally became apocalyptic in nature...with humans saving the day, predictably.

That didn’t surprise him. Humans were always the protagonists of their own fictions. In a similar vein, he fully expected androids to be the protagonists and saviors of _ their _ stories, as well -- as soon as they had stories to tell, anyway.

But it rose the question: could machines have souls? In her very first interview, Chloe had said she didn’t. Connor knew that. With deviancy came questions, a lot of them, and the concept of souls had been raised more than once thus far, Congress often pointing to that interview when arguing against android rights. 

He didn’t know if he believed it. Did he have a soul? Could he ever? Was that a possibility? He doubted these questions would ever be answered, leaving a kind of dark gap in his awareness of himself. It left him...unsettled.

And confused, he admitted, now that he knew Evelyn -- a known atheist -- seemed to think her vehicle had a spirit.

“So,” he concluded, “you believe your car has a soul?”

“Well, no, not in the slightest,” she answered. “I don’t believe in souls in general. And vehicles -- or at least this one -- doesn’t have any measure of AI. The chances of him having any sort of intelligence is nil. But I like the idea, all the same.”

Well, there went the conclusion that she believed in souls.

“You’re a very strange human,” he informed her.

She laughed.

The rest of the trip passed in ease, the pair of them talking about a multitude of subjects before settling on discussing Montgomery’s murder. He’d read -- or scanned, really -- the reports, but it was good to have her open perspective, too. If nothing else, she had experience with numerous similar murders in the area and you never knew when something relating to a separate event would become relevant.

He hadn’t expected Kamski’s offhand comment about emergency exit programs would come in handy, for example, but it had. Lesson learned: always pay attention.

The route to Montgomery’s estate wound alongside a small mountain rise, delving deeper into trees with each bend of the road. Eventually they reached the home itself, three-quarters of the way up the side on a large, flat expanse. The road led to a roundabout leading directly to the front of the house, and Forbes parked there.

Two vehicles were parked in the open garage nearby, though Connor expected at least one had been Elias’. Neither had a front license plate so he couldn’t check them unless he went inside the garage, and he didn’t expect he’d find anything of note in there so he opted to ignore it. 

Forbes went ahead of him up to the front door, pressing the buzzer. By the time he joined her he could hear movement within, and in another moment the door opened. 

An older male stood there, hair greying and held back in a low tie, wearing a shirt and slacks. Connor identified him as Rey Gulliotte, Elias’ brother-in-law. Were they holding a service here, Connor wondered? That would make things awkward... 

“Yes?” Rey asked. 

Forbes introduced the two of them, then checked, “Is it alright if we come in?” 

Rey looked pained. “I think we’ve been through enough already with the questions. My wife is in mourning--” 

“We just want to look at the crime scene,” Connor interrupted. “We won’t disturb anyone.” 

Rey paused at that, thoughtful, then gave a nod. Stepping aside, he gestured them to enter, saying, “Very well. I’ll have Francine escort you.” 

Francine Belahast, Connor deduced. The housekeeper. She’d been interviewed numerous times over the last week, her memories and motives meticulously picked apart for information and leads. Alas, she hadn’t been helpful, and according to the files, had broken down on three separate occasions. 

He didn’t imagine her mental state was much better by now. Best to leave her be, he decided. 

They didn’t have to wait long for Francine to reach them, and without hesitation she led them right to the study. It’d been cleaned, he saw with disappointment, but he shouldn’t be surprised by that. It’d happened on New Year’s day, and today was the 7th. Of course it’d been cleaned. 

But the cleaning could only be so successful. Bullet holes remained in the walls, for one thing, and that was enough to begin his investigation. 

Francine -- a redheaded older woman dressed in black -- didn’t stay long. As soon as she opened the study door for them, granting them entry, she retreated again, clearly uncomfortable. At first he assumed she was traumatized from her interviews with the officers, but before she got out of sight he caught her giving _ him _ a startled look. 

Ah. She was afraid of androids, then. Noted. 

Forbes didn’t seem to notice. She strode into the room, looking around, getting her bearings. 

“You said you never saw the scene?” Connor checked. 

“Correct,” she answered. 

“Isn’t that odd, for a homicide detective?” 

“They had a homicide detective -- Ulrich,” she reminded him. “I was assigned to questioning suspects and witnesses, and later, tracking leads.” 

“Which immediately dried up,” he added. 

“Sadly, yes.” 

He started examining the bookcases then, noting where additional shots had landed, as he asked, “Was a list of possible enemies ever assembled?” 

“That was deemed a lost cause,” she answered, starting to examine the desk. “He was a very high-ranked lawyer, so the list would have to include everyone who’d ever lost to him -- several hundred,” she hinted. 

“So, instead, you checked out the family,” he deduced. 

“Most homicides are done by someone close to the victim, so yes. Aside from his sister and brother-in-law, we also looked at Francine, his uncle, his three nephews, and his estranged son, Henry.” 

“Alibis?” he asked. 

“All in the reports,” she told him. “We couldn’t corroborate all of them, but nothing was weak enough to be counted as a motive, either.” 

Absorbing that, he concluded, “Leading to the theory that it was gang-related.” 

“We don’t have much else to go on,” she reasoned. Then, after a second, she asked, “Find anything interesting yet?” 

“In the sense that Elias barely touched these books, yes,” he admitted. He wasn’t finding much in the realm of fingerprints and contact DNA. The collection presented was expansive and sophisticated, yet it was clear that it was nothing more than an appearance. 

Based on what he was seeing, Elias never actually read any of these books. If he removed any, it was only for discussion purposes. 

Then, pausing, Connor pinpointed one tome with repeated prints, left- and right-handed, stacking on top of each other. All were Montgomery’s. 

Could it _ really _ be that simple? 

Moving carefully in case this was some sort of trap, he reached up and pulled on the thick tome -- Shakespeare’s Hamlet -- and it slid out, nothing tugging or impeding the motion. Nothing stood out on the wall beyond, either, leaving him with a single lead: the book, itself. 

“Whatcha got there?” Forbes checked. 

“Hamlet,” Connor answered, flipping the book open. 

“Didn’t take you for a fan of the classics,” she noted. 

He wasn’t -- but then, he hadn’t really looked into it yet, either. Ignoring that, he replied, “This is covered in Montgomery’s prints, far more than the others.” 

“No kidding?” she pressed, coming over. 

He lowered the book so she could see it clearly as he began flipping, using his multitude of scans to look for anything that stood out. He half-expected to find either notes written in the pages or folded corners, but he found neither. 

He did, however, catch many more instances of fingerprints, placed oddly in the centers of the pages -- as if to isolate specific passages. 

He made it more than halfway through the book before Forbes sighed, admitting, “I’m not getting anything from this. It looks spotless.” 

“It’s not,” he assured her. “Montgomery’s prints are everywhere in the pages--” he gave her a look “--as if keeping track of his place.” 

Her brows lifted. “Leapfrogging along?” she checked. 

“Exactly.” 

“Hot damn,” she murmured, smirking. “I don’t suppose you have a way to determine _ when _ each print was placed?” 

“Not down to the second, no,” he answered. 

“Damn. Well, it’s something, at least,” she allowed. “Alright, you keep that up, I’ll go back to the desk.” 

He nodded, watching her for a second as she strode to the desk, the chair placed aside already so she could crouch and look underneath it. From the look of it she’d already checked most of the seven drawers, her prints on each -- two were locked. 

Going back to his task, Connor checked each page more meticulously, noting every instance of fingerprints and -- to what extent he could -- the age of each. By the end he concluded that if Elias were using this tome to send or decipher coded messages, it’d lasted months. Some prints were clearly older than four months, the oils having absorbed into the pages and smudged over time. 

He could reasonably assume that this book had been accessed and used in this manner at least six times, but even his advanced features couldn’t determine more detail than that. 

“This needs to go into evidence,” Connor informed her, setting the book aside. 

“Agreed,” she answered, carefully feeling the underside of the desk at present. 

He came close to snapping, seeing that; she could smudge any prints left behind! But, he saw a second later, she wasn’t running her fingers left and right; she was pressing in a very specific spot. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. 

“A lot of people have hidden compartments in their desks,” she half-answered. “I’ve found several over the years. It’s usually right here...” 

Her annoyed expression answered his next question before he could ask. 

“Is there one?” 

“No,” she huffed, withdrawing. 

He looked at the drawers, then, checking, “I assume you searched for false bottoms?” 

“None,” she confirmed, “unless there’s any in either of those.” She gestured the two locked ones, the topmost left- and right-side drawers. 

They both required a physical key. “And no one checked those?” he asked, doubtful. 

“Francine didn’t have a key, and Guerrero ruled that unless we had reason to look to leave them alone,” she told him. “Since we were more focused on the laptop it just never seemed important enough.” 

“And how about now?” he asked dryly. 

She chuckled. “I don’t know, how about now?” she challenged. “Can _ you _ think of any reason to break into them? Probable cause?” 

...Not immediately. If it was important, after all, the criminals would have broken into them. Then again, he reasoned, maybe they had; maybe they had the key and simply locked the drawers again before they left. 

He glanced about, looking for anything else that stood out, and replied, “Not...yet, no.” 

“Thought so.” 

As he continued to eye the bookcases, covering nearly half the room and specifically the wall behind the desk, he started looking for electricity. Multiple lines ran through the walls and ceiling, and one by one he followed each to various outlets. 

Forbes was watching him, he noted, just patiently waiting for him to complete the task. She didn’t seem bored or annoyed, just curious. He didn’t let it distract him, but a part of him couldn’t help feeling grateful for her patience. He didn’t think many humans would just sit and wait for him to complete his scans. 

At least, not without looking offended or irritated, anyway. 

Then -- finally -- he found a power line that separated from the rest. Isolating it, he followed its pulse, finding that its source was directly from the solar power panels on the roof. It traveled down through the outer wall, under the floor -- and up the side of the desk to one of the locked drawers. From there it went back down again, to the floor and...to the bookcase behind the desk, splitting to create a partial square before ending a few feet up the wall. 

Forbes seemed to notice how his gaze skittered around the room and to the bookcase, because she leaned in, checking, “Connor?” 

“Found your probable cause,” he told her. 

“Well?” she prompted. “Don’t leave a lady in suspense.” 

He outlined the power lines, pointing out how it went into and then back out of the desk and one drawer. 

“But,” he added with frustration, “we’ll need the key.” 

“Sorry, what?” she retorted, amused, and he realized she was now holding a rectangular container with a zipper along three sides. She unzipped it, revealing -- a series of lockpicks. 

“Are you kidding?” he blurted, caught between being amused and dumbfounded. She had lockpicks? 

She crouched down, smirking, and went about selecting her wrench and pick, checking the size of the lock as she went. 

“You know how to pick locks?” he demanded. 

“Well, yeah. It’s actually really easy,” she told him. “I’m surprised you don’t know this.” 

“I’ll watch a tutorial,” he commented dryly. “Were you holding onto those this whole time, just waiting for your chance to use them?” 

“Bingo,” she chuckled. 

“Show-off.” 

She winked at him, then focused on her task, and he both watched her and took the time to find instructions on how to pick locks. In no time he could tell that she really knew what she was doing, implying a notable amount of experience. 

Where the hell had she learned this? 

The answer was obvious -- she was a _ cop,_ and after attending military school. One of the two was enough to reasonably assume she’d know this, but both? _ Of course she’d have learned to pick locks. _

Soon she had the lock undone, and she grinned as she twisted the wrench. But when she made to pull open the drawer, he caught an alert -- the electricity leading to the drawer had spiked. 

That...couldn’t be good. 

Reacting as quick as he could, he reached out, clamping his hand on the drawer to stop it from moving. 

“Wha--” she started. 

“Get behind me,” he ordered. 

She didn’t wait for an explanation; she got right to her feet, stepping behind him. “What’s going on?” she demanded once she was safely in place. 

He was paying more attention to the power surge going through the wires than anything, deciphering what he was seeing, so he half-answered, “It’s either an alarm or a trap.” The wooden desk was difficult to see through with his scans, leaving him unsure what the purpose of the power was. 

“I vote the former,” she commented quietly, clearly trying for levity -- and failing. After a strained few seconds, she asked, “What do we do? ...Connor?” 

“Give me a second,” he pressed. He could figure this out. He just needed a moment...time to consider the options...


	7. Who Were You?

**Rating:** R (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

It didn’t take long for Connor to come up with a few solutions to this predicament. Whether any of them would work, however, was another question entirely; he didn’t have any previous experiences to draw upon for this particular situation. 

Obviously, his first thought was to cut off the power supply to the drawer he was currently holding. The downside to this was twofold: he couldn’t move, so Evelyn would have to find a suitable entry point and correctly disrupt the electricity; and if they succeeded then whatever was on the other side of the wall might end up also getting cut off from them, thus halting the investigation -- at least temporarily. 

His second thought was to have Evelyn leave the room, effectively removing her from harm’s way, and then he’d duck under the heavy wooden desk and hope that if there were some kind of automated defense it wouldn’t be able to get through the desk. Definitely the more risky scenario, that. 

Third option was to just let the drawer open, hope it was nothing more than alarm, and if it wasn’t, then at least he’d be able to see what was in there before anything else activated. At the very least he’d gather more information, hopefully leading to a better solution at that point. 

His fourth option was to attempt to hack into the power supply, but that would require exposing the cords somewhere within reach and then praying it wouldn’t overload his processors or react violently to the contact. Either way he couldn’t see them being able to pry open the flooring or wood paneling of the desk -- not without jeopardizing his grip in the process and therefore risking the third option occurring.

Lastly, he could remove his hand. It’d give him the freedom to move, but he couldn’t ensure that it would remain locked in place; there’s a good chance it would just go slack and they’d be back to square one.

They were all risky, but the first one was the least so. Unfortunately the first one was also the most likely to result in locking them out from what he was sure was a sliding wall. 

Hedging over what would be the best solution, he laid them out for Evelyn, ending with, “Do you have any other thoughts?” 

She pondered on it for a moment, and he took the time to analyze her -- concluding that she was just as tense as he was. Her heart rate was quick, her breathing a little heavy to match it, obviously flooded with adrenaline. 

And she answered, “Well, we can’t just let the drawer open -- if it’s an alarm, it’s probably a lockdown sequence,” she reasoned. 

Shit, she was right. 

Shaking her head, she thought out loud, “Cutting off the power would probably lock us out, letting the drawer open would probably lock us out...fuck, I don’t know how to get around this...” 

He was actually surprised about that, checking, “You’ve never been in this situation before?” 

“Shockingly, no,” she answered, sarcastic. 

He chose not to get annoyed by that; she was stressed, after all. She wasn’t trying to mock him. 

“Well, neither have I,” he told her, tone sharp. “I can only analyze things so far ahead -- especially with so little information.” 

She glanced up at him, then at the wall behind them, clearly thinking quick. Looking up then, she scanned the ceiling, pointedly looking in every nook and cranny. “You can see power lines, right?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he answered absently, starting to follow her train of thought. Cycling through all of his various scans one by one, he looked for anything out of place all along the ceiling. 

Evelyn spoke as he did so, saying, “We were looking for cameras -- what if there’s something else hidden, though? Can you see any source of power?” 

“No -- not yet,” he replied, but he was starting to get a different idea. Rather than look for electricity, he instead looked for panels -- ways that the ceiling didn’t quite fully line up. When that turned up nothing, he moved on to the walls, but the bookcases were in the way. 

His partner seemed to be one step ahead of him, starting to stride around the room, examining everything higher than eye level. 

At this point she was his reach, so he directed, “Pull that bookcase down -- the whole thing.” 

She glanced at him, then followed his point to the one just to her right. He was seeing a portion of a powerline diving behind the shelf -- but not coming out. And when she did as directed, just yanking the roof-high shelf over without hesitation, he got the oddest sensation. 

She’d just...trusted him, no questions asked, and it was weird how much he appreciated that. But he couldn’t focus on it at the moment -- now that he could see the wall more clearly he could see what was receiving that power. 

A button. 

It was camouflaged against the wall, invisible to the human eye, so he directed Evelyn to it, telling her where to touch. And when she found the spot, they shared a tense look, neither sure what would come of this but in it together. 

She pressed, hard, and there was an almost inaudible _ click _ from the button. 

At once, a whole new powerline lit up, diving down to the floor and leading directly to the desk. He saw nothing change in the power from this end, heard nothing else, but analyzing the connections suggested that the button on the wall had disabled something from the desk’s end. 

There was still a chance that something terrible was about to happen, though, so he said to Forbes, “Get out of the room.” 

“What? No,” she replied sharply. “What happened?” 

“I think it’s safe, but it might not be,” he told her, “so you need to leave.” 

She actually looked angry at the order, stepping over the cascade of books now littering the floor to stride over to him. Hands on the desk, she said fiercely, “I’m not leaving you here.” 

“I’m not giving you a choice,” he returned. “Just step outside, Evelyn.” 

“You don’t really have much leeway, here,” she hinted.

A point. Still, he retorted sharply, “Only one of us needs to be here right now, Forbes.”

“Yeah -- and I outrank you,” she pointed out. “Unless it happens to be Opposite Day, you do as I say, not the other way around.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he snapped, growing frustrated. “I can be repaired -- you can’t.” 

Technically, that was a gamble; with his connection to CyberLife’s servers severed he had no way to back up his memory. If he was damaged too badly that’d be it -- no more immortal Connor. He had to be more careful than ever before. 

But he could still repair any kind of superficial damage. Damaged arms or legs could be replaced. Most of his biocomponents could be broken and he’d still have up to an hour to replace them -- provided his power regulator remained intact, of course. 

Evelyn wasn’t an android. If she was hurt too badly she’d bleed out -- fast. If her arms or legs were damaged enough it’d have to get amputated, and even with modern prosthetics it’d still be a massive challenge to recover from. In the end, he could take the risk. 

She couldn’t. 

Gentling, he urged, “Just step out of the room. That’s all you have to do.” 

She shook her head. “If I stay, I can protect you.” 

He appreciated the sentiment, but... “Right now, I’m trying to protect you,” he told her. 

“Well, fuck,” she retorted, “we’re both self-sacrificing? That’s gonna be a problem.” 

“Please, Evelyn,” he tried, hoping that pleading would get her out of here. He couldn’t be sure it was safe yet, and worse, he didn’t know if a timer was at work, either. What if the line went dead before he could figure this out? 

She exhaled hard, then said quietly, “I’m a lot less important than you. Let me at least _ try _ to keep you safe.” 

Concerned and alarmed, he demanded, “Why would you say that?” 

“Simple truth,” she answered. “I’m one of ten billion humans, and not even a particularly spectacular one. You’re one of a hundred million androids,” she stressed, “and easily one of the most important. No contest." 

For a second he was stunned by that. Did she really think so lowly of herself? It was as if she didn’t know her own power. As a human, other humans would listen to her; as an android supporter, she was rare and valuable. 

He’d have to set that straight -- later. Right now he just responded sharply, “We’ll talk about _ that _ after we get out of here. Now I need you to leave the room -- do _ not _ argue with me,” he added quickly when she made to speak. “If I get damaged, you can help fix me. If we’re both damaged, that’s a much bigger problem. Now, go.” He pointed at the hallway door for emphasis. 

She hesitated another instant, then huffed but obeyed, turning from him and hurrying from the room. Relief hit him hard, and once she had the door closed he shifted his attention to the desk drawer. 

_ Please let whatever it is be benign, _ he thought. 

He was tense, his processors _ racing _ just in case, as he pulled open the drawer. Keyed up as he was, he looked for the source of electricity first, finding a touchpad the size of a fingerprint on the side of the drawer. It was glowing soft blue, slightly illuminating the interior of the compartment. 

Nothing sprung to life as a result of this, allowing him to calm down. Maybe it wasn’t a trap, then, but rather a two-part security system? Still cautious but less so now that he knew he was, at most, risking a single hand, he reached inside to touch the pad. 

Hacking it was _ easy _ once he’d established the physical connection, his processors absently cycling through multiple codes until he found the correct one. In the meantime he examined the contents of the drawer, seeing two separate little notebooks, a wooden case roughly seven inches long by five inches wide by one inch tall, all on top of a stack of papers -- between fifteen and twenty, at a glance. 

A soft chime alerted him that his hacking was successfully completed, and it coincided with a quiet hiss and sliding sound from behind him. Turning his attention to the wall, he saw it’d receded back around two inches, then split apart into two panels. 

_ Fuck, yes. _

Crossing what he was seeing with the blueprints for this building revealed that this was probably not the only hidden compartment in the house; all the walls were this same thickness -- a full eighteen inches -- and if one could be hiding something, they all could. 

A small display was set up in the wall, more of a window than anything, four feet wide and three feet tall. Five monitors framed a safe right in the center of it, so thin it had to be a digital device, not meant for physical storage. A full hand-sized touchpad was on the front, and the five monitors -- as expected -- were showing feeds from hidden cameras in the house. 

One was in the garage, he saw, three in rooms he didn’t recognize, and one was in this room. 

_ Jackpot. _

“Evelyn,” he called, “you can come back now.” 

In a second the door had opened, and he heard her murmur, “Holy shit,” when she saw what they’d uncovered. 

She crossed over to him, quietly examining the stash before them. Then, twisting around, she looked right at the hidden camera. As he’d expected, it was up at ceiling height, just an inch or so below, and it was in the corner by the hallway door -- with a fantastic view of the glass doors.

Now that he had it located, he understood why he hadn’t been able to see it before: it was wireless, and it was evidently made to be as invisible as possible. Not only was it impossible to see against the wall, but now he recognized that it was made of electricity-dampening materials -- a very high-tech, very new, _ very _ expensive setup designed to hide electronics to all forms of scans.

Including his. 

He would bet that all five of the cameras shown on the monitors had this identical makeup, meaning he would need to coordinate with Evelyn just to find them. Hopefully their digital storage wouldn’t be so difficult, though.

Reaching out, Connor laid his hand on that particular monitor, divining what he could from it. The feed wirelessly pinged the digital storage for the cameras, but he was surprised to learn it wasn’t in the safe right in front of him. _ Extra security, Mr. Montgomery? _ he thought. _ What did you get mixed up in? _

It appeared there was a block box elsewhere in the house, but he couldn’t follow a powerline to it because it was wireless. That was much more difficult to locate. But with this safe uncovered they might not need it; whatever was within might point the finger at the murderers. 

To Evelyn, he said, “Call this in. I’m going to try hacking the safe.” 

“On it,” she answered easily, stepping away to have the conversation. 

He half-listened as he pressed his hand against the touchpad, cycling through his hacking codes. It was much more difficult than hacking the fingerprint pad had been, he found, but with his speed it hardly made a difference. In moments there was an audible _ click _ as the safe door unlatched. 

Inside was a soft, velvety case with a single rectangular depression, the size of a thumb. It was designed to hold a portable storage drive, clearly.

But there was nothing in it. 

This just got more complicated. 

* * *

The pair had to leave shortly after that, as the noise of the bookcase being knocked over had drawn Rey’s attention and he’d been incensed at the destruction. His wife, Petra, had also come, and she’d teared up at the sight of her brother’s study in such a wreck.

Neither of them had been very surprised to find a hidden compartment in Elias’ study, Connor learned, but they’d been adamant that the detectives take their leave. Evelyn pointedly made the couple promise to let the forensics team in when they arrived before agreeing. Then, taking only the book they’d found and the stack of papers from the desk drawer she’d unlocked, they left.

Connor studied them as they drove back to the city. After making a compendium of the fingerprints inside the book, ordered as best he could and otherwise grouped by estimated age, he moved on to the papers, hoping it would lend a clue.

And they did.

The pages were letters, physical letters, sent by numerous individuals whose names weren’t being pinged in his databases. False names and codes, he concluded. But the content of the letters was the interesting thing: they made very little sense.

The dates, for one thing, were always incorrect, one of which was dated April 7th, 1471 and another July 32nd, 2083. This was obviously important to the codes, but without the cipher he couldn’t be sure how it related to _ Hamlet. _

His first thought was that it related to page, line, word, but that didn’t add up right. He suspected there was a missing piece to this puzzle, something they hadn’t found -- possibly something that had been taken upon Elias’ death.

Another odd thing about the letters was the incredible number of grammatical errors. This was mostly clear in the use of tenses -- phases like “wish you was here” instead of “wish you were here” and the like -- and missing or doubled punctuation. One could easily simply deduce that whoever wrote these letters was just bad at grammar, but that didn’t fit, either.

All of the letters were badly-written, but in inconsistent ways. This wasn’t someone of low intellect -- this was someone writing in code.

The rabbithole for this case had just deepened considerably.

Connor informed Forbes of what he’d been able to interpret of the evidence, concluding, “What we have are coded letters and one half of the cipher. We need the other piece to decode them.”

“Which may very well be on the laptop,” she worked out.

“And might’ve been wiped by now,” he added with a wince.

She blew out a sigh. Then, giving him a smile, she said, “Well, it’s still a lot more than we had. You did great,” she approved.

He smiled back, pleased. Then, setting the collected evidence on the floor, he decided to bring up a subject he was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to discuss. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he wanted a few answers, if only so he’d stop thinking about it.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

He saw her lips quirk at the query, amused. “You know, I don’t think anyone’s ever asked if it’s okay to ask before,” she noted. “At least not to me.”

“Can I?” he prompted.

“Sure.”

He hesitated a second before venturing, “What happened between you and your husband?”

He could barely see her eyes around her sunglasses, but he still caught her gaze hardening. The smirk was gone from her lips, as well, displaying in large letters that she wasn’t comfortable with the subject.

“You don’t have to answer,” he assured her. “I’m just...concerned.”

“With good reason, I’ll bet,” she replied. “Especially after that call. I’m sorry you had to hear that, by the way.”

He wanted to say it hadn’t bothered him, but then he’d be lying. Instead, he said, “I’m more upset that you’re upset than anything. Can you explain...?”

She sighed, relaxing just a degree. Then she began, “We’re currently separated. Since late November. We’re both waiting on the other to apologize.”

He nodded as he took that in. “He said he missed you,” he noted. “I take it you haven’t seen each other much since then?”

Evelyn shook her head. “He comes to see me at work sometimes. Sometimes with gifts, like flowers. I hate that he gives flowers,” she added quietly, annoyed.

“Why?” Connor asked, surprised. “I thought all women love flowers.”

“Every rule has an exception,” she pointed out. “Anyway, yes, I like flowers, I just...can’t justify them anymore. Not after we lost the bees. I’d honestly prefer he give fake ones, but the real ones are more expensive and rare, and he’s trying to be romantic so that’s what he goes with.”

“Trying to buy your affection,” he concluded.

“Something like that.”

“And it’s not working.”

“Not yet, but he’s a persistent guy, and I _ do _ have a soft spot for him,” she told him. “Truth be told, I miss him too, but I am _ not _ going to just...forgive him because he wants it real bad. That’s not enough.”

“Which brings me back to what happened,” Connor hinted. “What made the two of you split up?”

She heaved a sigh, but rather than look angry, she looked _ sad. _

He barely knew her, yet that look still managed to upset him. This was clearly stressful for her, and despite only knowing Evelyn for a day he felt protective of her. Whatever distressed her was unwelcome, period.

Then she half-answered, “He thinks I cheated on him, so in retaliation he cheated on me.”

That was...surprising, yet not at the same time. Infidelity was so _ common _ among humans it almost went without say that every given human had either cheated on their significant other or been cheated on by said significant other. But, somehow, knowing that it’d happened to his newest partner irritated him.

“So Richard’s point was revenge,” Connor deduced.

“Yep.”

“_ Did _ you cheat on him, first?” he checked.

“No,” she said on a low laugh. “I thought he would’ve known better, but he just--”

“You’re speeding,” Connor interrupted, and yeah, she’d been going over the speed limit this whole time anyway, but her stress had her gunning it. They were going 80 in a 65 zone, now.

“Sorry,” she muttered, easing up. “No cruise control in this ancient beast, unfortunately.”

Opting not to comment on that, he instead asked, “So if you didn’t cheat on him, why does he think you did?”

Huffing, her stress level skyrocketing, she retorted sharply, “Look, can we not talk about this now? It’s...kind of...triggering.”

Sitting back in his seat, he replied, “I apologize. It wasn’t my intent to upset you.”

“It’s really not your fault,” she pointed out -- with just enough emphasis to imply whose fault it was. “Anyway, I’m just glad you’re taking an interest. It’s a good thing.”

“It is?” he checked, doubtful. Hank had hated the personal questions.

“Yeah. Partners should care about each other,” she hinted.

That pulled another smile out of him. “In that case,” he began, “do you have any personal questions for me?”

“Pretty sure I asked all of them already,” she chuckled. “You have the patience of a god, by the way.”

He laughed. “You might be surprised to learn I wasn’t programmed that way.”

“No?”

“No.”

“That’s an idea,” she began, thoughtful.

Curious, he checked, “What is?”

“If you’re really okay with me picking your brain,” she said, “then let’s get picking. Tell me about some of the things that changed about you when you...woke up.”

“Went deviant,” he corrected dryly.

“That was a conscious decision on your part, right?”

“Yes, it was,” he answered softly, thinking back to that moment.

“What made you decide?”

That was a little more difficult to explain. “A culmination of events, I think,” he tried. “I’d been defying my programming in smaller ways up until then. Choosing not to chase, not to fight, not to shoot -- letting other deviants get away. Sometimes I had a justification, other times I couldn’t explain my reasoning.”

Forbes looked pleased by his words, offering him a smile. “Well, go on,” she prompted. “Tell me about one.”

The first to come to mind was Rupert -- and when Connor had allowed his escape, prioritizing ensuring Hank’s survival over capturing the deviant.

“Rupert Travis,” he said aloud, “model WB200, serial ID 874-004-961. There wasn’t much to go on, initially, just a call about strange noises in his apartment and suspicion that he was hiding an LED under his hat. My partner at the time, Hank Anderson, and I went to investigate. No one answered the door, but there was a loud crash from inside, so Hank kicked open the door and we entered under the pretense of probable cause.”

“Someone could be hurt,” Evelyn agreed.

“Precisely. We found...pigeons.”

With a strangled laugh, she checked, “Pigeons?”

“At least a hundred.”

“Christ,” she muttered, amused. “Just...in the apartment?”

“Flying from point to point. Fecal matter was everywhere. Hank could barely stand it,” he commented.

Disgusted, she retorted, “Yeah, I can barely stand it and I’m not even there. Really can’t blame him.”

“We also found obsessive writing on the bathroom wall, a common practice among deviants, a removed LED, and thirium. I eventually tracked him to a hole in the ceiling. He jumped on me, then ran for it, and I chased after him. We ran across several rooftops, most of which was farming space.” 

“Yeah?” she prompted, giving him a grin. “Was it cool?”

“I’m sure you’d think so,” he allowed.

“But it was normal for you, so whatever?” she checked.

“Something like that.”

“Okay, go on,” she hinted. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

“It was...difficult, but I was gaining on him,” he told her. “Hank had taken another route, and he reached Rupert before I did. Then...Rupert shoved him, and Hank tipped over the edge. He wasn’t in that great of danger,” he said, “he was more than capable of saving his own life. I could’ve gone after Rupert, and I’m sure I would’ve caught him. But I couldn’t risk Hank dying, so I chose instead to help him.”

Evelyn nodded as she took that in, then replied, “Sounds like the right choice to me.”

“Amanda didn’t think so,” he admitted. “And I felt like a failure for losing Rupert.”

She absently swatted at his arm, chiding, “Hey, I don’t want to hear that ever again. Get me? You are _ so _ not a failure.”

He smiled a little. “I know that -- now. But it doesn’t change what I felt then.”

Tilting her head, she asked, “Wait, who’s Amanda?”

“My liaison at CyberLife,” he answered. “An AI, modeled after a former teacher of Kamski’s. Her job was to interpret, sort and correlate information, then pass it along to the correct recipients. I got all my reports from her, and I reported directly to her.”

“Ah,” Evelyn nodded. “So Rupert got away, and...?”

“...Until then, Hank disapproved of me entirely,” Connor told her. “I hadn’t saved his life to try and endear myself to him -- it was simply an impulse -- but it seemed to prove something to him. He was a lot more understanding and patient from then on. I think...” he began, then hedged, trailing off.

She glanced at him, then back to the road. “Think what?” she pressed. “What are you thinking?”

Shaking his head, he answered, “I think, in a way...Hank saw me as a son.”

Touched, she briefly reached for her throat, then replaced her hand on the steering wheel. “That’s...really touching. And, did you...think of him as a father?”

He hesitated, having trouble gathering his thoughts on the subject, then ventured, “I think...I didn’t know him long enough. I thought of him as a friend by the end. But a father...?” That was harder to define.

Hesitant, herself, she checked, “By the end...?”

He sighed. “He...died. During the revolution.”

She exhaled hard, expression growing sorrowful. “I’m so sorry, Connor,” she cooed, reaching over to rub his shoulder. 

His gaze dropped to the floor, an odd sensation taking up residence inside him. It wasn’t physical, but it felt similar, a twisting and grinding that was unpleasant and distressing. Despair? Regret?

Mourning?

He found himself murmuring aloud, “Another RK800 shot him. Someone with my face. I made a bad call, and Hank died for it. And the last thing he said was...an order, in a sense. He told me to kick humans’ ass,” he said with a strained laugh. “That they’d fucked things up for long enough.”

When he glanced up again he noticed Evelyn was smiling again. “I think I would’ve liked Hank,” she noted.

“He was extremely gruff,” Connor warned her.

“Sounds like my dad.”

“Hard-drinking.”

“Still just like dad.”

“He loved jazz,” he pointed out.

Inclining her head, she admitted, “Less like dad.” 

Then, words catching in his throat, he noted quietly, “I think he would’ve liked you, Evelyn.”

She glanced at him and back, checking, “Yeah?”

“I think you would’ve reminded him of himself, when he was a few years younger,” he told her. “He was the youngest officer to make lieutenant in Detroit. His decorations included a several-month sting of red ice dealers -- that was what earned him his rank.”

“Sounds cool,” she approved, nodding.

“He also struggled with depression,” he added more quietly, “though for a different reason. He drank to deal with it. Drowning his sorrows.”

“An all-too-common situation, these days,” she murmured. “At least he didn’t turn to red ice.”

“He wouldn’t have, he hated the stuff,” he told her. “Almost as much as he hated androids.”

She made a wincing noise. “Ouch. Bet that hurt -- having to partner with him.”

“Actually...no,” he admitted. “At the start, I didn’t care. I didn’t have the capacity. And by the time I _ did _ start to care, he...seemed to take a liking to me. After a while I wasn’t just another android to him.”

“That’s good, at least,” she said, her smile returning.

Then, with a laugh, Connor said, “The day after we met, I ended up pissing him off. That was partly his fault -- he was being...difficult, and my instructions were pressing. But I only had so many programmed responses, and I guess I picked the wrong one because he slammed me against a partition and told me that if he had his way, he’d throw all of us in a dumpster and throw a match in it.”

“Ouch,” she repeated, but with a measure of amusement this time. “And what’d you say?”

“Nothing. I was still sorting through how to respond when another officer interrupted him. But it was funny...we were called out to a scene where an AX400 was spotted after assaulting her owner. I eventually found her and chased her, and she and a YK500 ran into the freeway to get away. I was going to go after them, but Hank stopped me. Said I’d get myself killed.”

Surprised, she checked, “And this is the same guy who, just a little bit earlier, said he’d burn you if he could?”

“Yeah.”

“Getting the impression he was kind of unhinged,” she noted.

“That’s one way to describe him,” he allowed. “But I think it was more...I reminded him of his son, so he had affection for me, but at the same time he couldn’t just forget his prejudice. He kept getting conflicted. He hated androids and everything that came with it, me included. But when it counted...when things were hectic, when I was at risk...he showed who he really was.”

Evelyn exhaled softly. “His heart pulling him one way, his head another...” she murmured.

“...Yes.” 

Then, more carefully, she ventured, “His son...?”

“Cole,” Connor answered. “He died three years ago. He was six. It wasn’t even a month past his birthday.”

She hummed, the sound sorrowful. “My sympathies to Hank,” she murmured.

Something about the way she said that caught his attention, but he let it lie for now. Instead, he finished, solemn, “Before he died...he said it was okay. He was going to see Cole again. He said he’d been looking forward to it for a long time.”

And, quietly, she murmured, “All parents do...”

Connor wanted to question that -- her tone was more than just sympathetic, and it made him feel concerned -- but he held back when he noted how high her stress had risen.

Her hands weren’t tense, her body displaying no nervous tics, but he recognized the way her throat would twitch every so often. Something was rooted very deeply in her, he saw, something painful and related strongly with her viewpoints on the fall of humanity.

Something that he knew he couldn’t question -- not yet. He could only make a note of this conversation, of her reactions, and hold off on queries until they knew each other better. And, preferably, while neither of them were driving.

Trying to lighten the mood, he commented sharply, “Are you a sports fan, by chance?”

She gave a small chuckle, amused. _ Good enough. _


	8. Android Shopping

**Rating:** R (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

As they were on their way back to the precinct Evelyn received another call. All unidentified numbers went straight to voicemail, so when the in-car computer called out “Furiah” Connor knew that she at least knew this person. 

She clicked the button on her steering wheel to answer, saying, “Forbes.” 

A slightly-panicked, slightly-relieved feminine voice replied, “Evie! I’m sorry to call you like this, but we need you.” 

“I figured as much,” Evelyn returned. “What do you need?” 

Hesitating, Furiah began, “I...have a list. We can get most everything on our own with time, but--” 

“Just tell me already,” Evelyn interrupted. 

Another hesitation, and then, “Several biocomponents -- I can give you exact details if you accept -- and...thirty-seven packs of thirium.” 

And now Connor knew that Furiah was an android, and a part of him was pleased that Evelyn had taken the call. But that much thirium, alone, had him stunned. Who were ‘they’? And how many were their number?

Evelyn was shocked, too, choking out, “Thirty-seven? Are you serious?” 

“I’m sorry -- I know it’s a lot--” 

“Yeah,” Evie hinted on a breath. 

“--but it’s the minimum we need. I just got another 212 androids -- we compiled everything and did repairs ourselves, as much as we could, but there’s been a lot of damage...”

“212?” Evelyn echoed in disbelief. “Where’d they come from, the ocean?”

“A few, actually, yeah,” Furiah answered. “Some came by bus from south, as far as Mexico. They just banded together and headed up here. They heard L.A. had a good relief and protection center.”

“Your center,” Evelyn concluded.

“Yeah. But even with everything we’ve scrounged up, we’re still short on...well, everything,” Furiah explained. “They need help, more than I can give, alone.”

Forbes was still battling stun as she replied, “And thirium is priced at $24.99 a pack now, did you know that? I’m really not thrilled at the idea of buying thirty-seven of them.” 

“I know, I know -- I’m really sorry, and I know we shouldn’t rely on you so much, you’ve already done more than you had to...” 

Evelyn sighed, looking torn. And Connor felt for her situation, even as he yearned to help his people. A part of him wished he could take Furiah’s side and pressure his partner to provide, but it would be wrong to do so. Furiah wasn’t asking for a _ small _ favor; Evelyn would be out a thousand dollars for the thirium alone, and this was before knowing what else the androids needed.

Limbs, he knew, could cost in the hundreds, and regulators, pumps, and replacement paneling and hoses were hardly less. At this point what he wanted more than anything was to provide help, himself, but he still didn’t have any funds. He was limited to performing repairs for the time being, and from the sound of it they’d already covered that much.

Evelyn had been right to tell him to fight for his salary, he realized now. At the time he’d been thinking of things _ he’d _ need, and that list had been short. This, however...this was far different. His people were in need. He couldn’t provide blue blood, though -- not without breaking laws -- so the most he could do was support her until he, too, had funds to offer.

Struggling, Evelyn offered, “I’ll...do what I can...” 

Furiah exhaled with relief. “Thank you, Evie -- really. I don’t know what we would’ve done without you.” 

Evelyn didn’t respond to that, but Connor could guess what she was thinking. 

_ Without me, you would’ve died. _

Aloud, Evelyn said, “Give me six hours. I’ll get what I can, then you can let me know where to deliver them.” 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Furiah was saying. “We owe you, Evie!” 

Evelyn hesitated a second, hedging, then finished, “Goodbye, Furiah.” 

“Goodbye!” 

As soon as the call ended, she seemed to deflate, looking exhausted. 

Concerned, Connor checked, “Are you alright?” 

She murmured, “What’s 24.99 times 37?” 

He answered carefully, “924.63.” 

“Plus tax?” she added. 

“989.35.” 

“Shit,” she muttered. “Was really hoping it wouldn’t be that close to one-k.” 

And that was why he wouldn’t push her to pay for the thirium, even as he felt a kind of desperation on behalf of his people. Hesitant, he changed the subject, asking, “Who is Furiah?” 

“Formerly, a police model,” Evelyn answered. “From our precinct. After the revolution she never came back to the force, but she got hold of me and I saved her contact info. She’s been watching over and protecting any androids she’s come into contact with since, and she calls me whenever they need something they can’t get on their own. I’m pretty sure she’s running an unofficial shelter at this point,” she told him. 

“I like her already,” Connor replied. 

Evelyn smiled. “She’s a good one.”

Still a little hesitant, he ventured, “I appreciate you doing this, Evelyn.”

She gave a slow nod, lost somewhere in her own thoughts, and replied quietly, “Do good recklessly.”

Curious, he checked, “Do good recklessly? Meaning, be charitable?”

“Basically. It was a meme for a while, back when I was a kid. The kind that sticks with you,” she told him. “It’s based on the premise that yeah, sometimes people are manipulative little bastards and they lie their asses off to get free stuff, but you should help them regardless -- both because what if they’re _ not _ lying, and it says more about you than it does about them.”

“Plus, humans are herd animals,” Connor pointed out. “Historically, free societies have always functioned the best in terms of crime and goodwill.”

“Which you’d think would suggest that money is the worst thing ever, but at least it has a balancing factor to it,” she said, thoughtful. “It’s hard to determine things like how many goats a table is worth. So money has that in its favor.”

Speaking of... “I have to ask,” he pressed, “do you...even have enough money to help out, right now?”

She inclined her head. “Straight numbers -- yes. But with the way things have been going, economy-wise, I’ve been more careful about my spending. The last thing I want is to end up living in my car. No offense,” she added towards the steering wheel.

He gave a laugh, then sobered. “I’d help if I had anything to give,” he told her.

“Which you won’t for a few weeks yet,” she hinted. “Don’t worry about it. Right now your job is strictly as an officer of the law. I’m the idiot who took on the moonlight role of Android Relief Provider.”

He smirked. “Well...humans _ are _ stupid,” he agreed.

She snorted. “And I’m just the poster child for the lot of us, then?”

“Could be worse,” he offered. “It could’ve been Ulrich.”

At that she cackled, amused.

* * *

The rest of the workday passed quickly, Evelyn and Connor putting their heads together to try and decode what they’d recovered from Montgomery’s estate. The CSI team arrived a few hours after they did with additional evidence, including -- thankfully -- two separate black boxes. 

Connor analyzed them right away, racing through their information as soon as they were connected to the terminals. Hundreds of hours of video and audio feeds were recorded, and he specifically searched for the study’s hidden camera feed. 

He got to see the attack happen in real time, isolating the snippet for the rest of the assigned force to view. 

It was a quick and simple attack, all things considered. Three fully-geared individuals, covered in heavy black clothing including masks and boots, smashed open the sliding door and came inside shooting automatic rifles. 

Montgomery barely had time to spin around in surprise from where he’d been examining some books before he was mowed down. He remained standing for an impressive amount of time, being riddled with bullets as the assailants shot in left-to-right sweeps across his form. A small red parrot had been on his shoulder and was shot three times during the sweep, dead before it hit the ground. 

As soon as Montgomery was down, two of the assailants left, and the third snapped Elias’ laptop closed and darted after them. A leaf blower was used to sweep up their footprints, and then they drove off. 

It was an SUV, black, and Connor had its model identified in no time. He couldn’t see the license plate, however, which was aggravating but probably not important in the end; criminals like this likely had false plates anyway. What caught his attention more was the fact that there were no actual roads on that side of the home, barely enough room for the SUV to fit against the rise of the mountain beyond. 

The rest of the recorded video feeds would take him much longer to get through -- an hour, at least -- so he opted to put them aside for now. The CSI team had also brought everything in Montgomery’s desk, namely the notebooks and the box that’d been in the drawer, which turned out to be a collection of fountain pens. 

Connor went ahead and analyzed those as much as his features would allow, looking for fingerprints, contact DNA, and any scratches or other markings. All items had Elias’ prints all over them -- and only his, confirming that he never let anyone else into his drawer. 

Since Connor had no prints, himself, he could handle the objects without gloves, allowing him to angle, analyze, and thoroughly search the items. He even twisted open the pens, looking for anything within. Nothing out of place, he found; Elias must have just been a collector. Unsurprising for a lawyer.

Then he moved on to the notebooks, and Evelyn helped him parse through them, looking for correlating information. Mostly the notes were just related to court cases and clients -- things that were confidential by nature, so they were forced to stop for long enough to get permission to keep going through them. 

Guerrero was all for them continuing the investigation, so he easily gave the pair of them the go-ahead. 

None of the dates seemed to imply they were related to the letters, at least, so they crossed that off the list. Perhaps they were unrelated, he thought, but then why would he keep the notebooks in the same drawer as his coded letters _ and _ the key to getting into the hidden compartment? 

“Something isn’t adding up,” he said aloud. 

Evelyn, slowly flipping back and forth through her notebook, commented, “I wonder if the case files -- the full case files -- are what we need. Like we know the letters’ senders are all codes -- maybe these names are the real ones?” 

Connor considered that, then denied, “No, I wouldn’t think so -- it seems too...obvious to keep it together with the letters.” 

Inclining her head, she offered, “Unless Elias knew he was going to get targeted and put them together on purpose?” 

He thought on that, and replayed the video of Elias’ last moments again in his mind. Elias was definitely surprised by the attack, but he notably didn’t try to protect himself. He didn’t shield himself, didn’t run for the door, didn’t throw books for cover or rush towards the shooters... 

“It’s possible,” he allowed. “If he really did expect his end approaching, then it makes sense that he would leave pieces behind for us to follow.” 

“But he’d have to pretend like it wasn’t intentional,” she pointed out, “or his son or sister might get targeted next. So he put a few things together...”

“...but not enough to make it easy for us,” Connor concluded. “It has weight.” 

“I’m betting what we really need here is that thumb drive,” she said, making an indistinct point at the evidence between them. “There’s something in it that we need to put everything together.” 

Pausing, thoughtful, he checked, “I’d like any files you have on the biggest and most powerful criminal figures in L.A. Any one of them could be a suspect.” 

Her brows lifted. “We thought it might be gang-related because of the lack of evidence, and you think it might be even higher? What are you basing this on?” 

“Montgomery’s study had some of the most advanced security systems in existence,” he explained. “That doesn’t come cheap, even for a high-tier lawyer. It’s possible someone gifted it to him, he crossed them, and they had him eliminated.” 

“Like a hit. But usually hits are done quietly,” she pointed out. 

“Unless they’re making a statement,” he countered. “The way Montgomery died was graphic and messy -- intentionally so. It’s likely they were sending a message.” 

“‘Don’t fuck with us, or you’ll end up like him?’“ she checked. 

“Precisely.” 

Nodding, she said, “You might just be onto something, there. But if it’s that high, it’s going to end up out of our jurisdiction. FBI will be all over this.” 

“If that’s what it takes to get justice...” he intoned. 

“But,” she hinted, “if it turns out we’re wrong, it’s our asses. We’re going to need to be sure about this.” 

“Get me access to those files,” he pressed, “and I’ll do the rest.” 

Thoughtful, she looked him over, seeming to take his measure. At length she nodded, saying, “Well, it’s not like the files are behind firewalls, anyway. You’re welcome to do whatever research you like -- you know my password.” 

He gave her a smile. “Don’t work yourself too hard,” he advised, rising, “you still have a date later today.” 

“Right,” she breathed on a laugh. 

He left her then, heading back upstairs to his desk. From there he just synced with his terminal and began searching. It took him a while to sort and correlate the information, though, given how much of it there was; the information he sought, alone, resulted in 87 names and 243 files dating back to the 1980s, which he then had to cross, connect, and sort by value to his current investigation. 

It took some work. He crossed out numerous of the names and cases just by obituaries declaring who’d passed on, then more based on incompatible information. For example, Montgomery had prosecuted several of the gangsters Connor had identified, and while that made them possible assailants, it also made them very unlikely to be allies of his. 

Officially, he found nothing solid linking Montgomery to any crime organization directly, but being able to cross references gave Connor enough of an edge to identify a probable employer for Montgomery: a crime family called Dulcevey. 

According to reports, they rose to power first in Taiwan, despite the family consisting of primarily French-European members. They proved exceedingly well-funded and clever, getting their first big break (and, by extension, first notice by international reports) in 2025. From there they migrated to various major cities around the world, and L.A. became their ground zero. 

Hugo and Émelie Dulcevey ruled the family, based on the reports, and Montgomery became their go-to lawyer whenever notable accusations came around. Unsurprisingly, most witnesses against the Dulceveys vanished just before official court precedings, leaving most prosecutors without critical evidence. 

There wasn’t enough here to suggest Montgomery was on an unofficial payroll for the family, as he was far from the only lawyer to represent them in that time and he had numerous clients with criminal ties, but it was a solid lead, at least. The only question Connor was worried about now was: why have Montgomery eliminated? 

Had he planned to leave the family, to stop representing them? That wasn’t enough motive -- the Dulcevey family could easily find other lawyers -- so maybe it went deeper. Maybe Montgomery was gathering evidence, himself; maybe he had reason to prosecute the Dulceveys or was just tired of all the underhanded crimes he was sweeping under the rug. 

Or maybe he stumbled upon something big enough that he knew he had to report it, the Dulceveys got wind of his activities, and put a hit on him -- and a bounty on the information, which would explain why the assassins took the laptop. 

Once Connor had this much of a theory worked out, he reported it to Forbes, wondering what her thoughts would be. And she did not disappoint. 

She was quiet for a few moments, thinking, before saying, “Do you know what’s really got me scratching my head? The hidden cameras,” she answered herself. “If Montgomery got those from someone else, you’d think they would have access to the feed. They’d know about the hidden compartment -- it’s in plain sight. Which is weird by itself,” she added, “usually those are designed to be hidden even from their own cameras. Limit the chances of someone else -- such as the police -- from finding anything damning.” 

A good point. “And if there was a hit on him,” Connor continued, “as well as any information he had -- hence the laptop being taken -- the assassins should’ve been informed of the compartment as well. But they clearly weren’t.” 

“Or they didn’t have access,” she suggested. 

“If it was a gift, then the ones who gave it to him would definitely have access, or at least the ability to hack into it.” 

“We need to figure out where he got that security system,” Forbes told him. “It’ll at least eliminate a theory. Hopefully a suspect, too.” 

“If the Dulceveys gave him the system,” he worked out, “then they’d know about the compartment, and would’ve had the assassins check it; therefore, the fact that they didn’t implied they didn’t know about it--” 

“Ergo, the Dulceveys didn’t send out the hit,” she concluded. “We might be looking at a potential gang war, then -- if Montgomery was on the payroll of a big family and another family took him out--” 

“--the Dulceveys would be on it quick, looking to get revenge,” Connor finished. 

“Think this one just got even bigger,” she told him, looking stressed. 

He could understand her trepidation. On top of the android revolution (of which she’d been a significant part, he’d learned), her issues with her husband, and the call she’d received today from Furiah, now she was juggling a possible gang war. It probably felt overwhelming for a single human. 

Then, thoughtful, she said, “What if Montgomery didn’t know about the cameras?” 

Surprised, Connor replied, “He had to have. That compartment showed the camera feeds and had a safe in it.” 

“Just go with it for a second,” she directed. “Say Montgomery didn’t know -- someone else installed the cameras. His file says he took extensive vacations the world over; any one of them is long enough for someone else to get into his house and do some remodeling.” 

Shaking his head, he pointed out, “But his own thumbprint opened the compartment.” 

“In conjunction with a hidden switch,” Evelyn argued. “What if the thumbprint itself did something else, something we didn’t figure out because we also hit the switch?” 

Connor considered that. “It’s possible,” he allowed, “but very unlikely.” 

“_ Unlikely _ isn’t the same as _ can’t happen,” _ she hinted. “Consider for a second that someone else was spying on him without his knowledge -- someone who even installed the hidden compartment themself, so Montgomery had no idea. The feed was wireless,” she reminded him, “and we never determined how far the signal went.” 

Going with it, he agreed, “Because we assumed it didn’t go farther than the house.” 

She gestured wide. “It’s a possibility, and that’s enough to look into it -- if only to eliminate it.” 

“If this pans out, I’m betting on the maid,” he told her. 

“You think?” 

“She was very startled by me,” he said, “and if that’s because she recognized me as a detective android, then she knows I can follow invisible threads. And if those threads lead to her...” 

Evelyn inclined her head, thoughtful. “She did seem...exceedingly distressed by Montgomery’s death. She kept having panic attacks. While it’s not unbelievable, it’s exactly how someone would act if they wanted to throw the scent off of them.” 

“Get eyes on her,” Connor directed. “Keep track of where she goes and who she meets with, her phone calls, everything. Just in case.” 

“No problem, I can assign her an escort under the premise of protection in case the assassins come after her.” Forbes rose from her seat as she spoke, then headed to the officer stationed outside the evidence room doors. They exchanged a brief conversation, the male nodded and picked up the receiver of the phone on his desk, and then she came back. 

Once she returned, Connor started, “What about you? What’d you find so far?” 

She gave him an amused look. “You were gone for twenty minutes, Connor,” she hinted. “I found nothing yet.” 

Right. He forgot just how efficient he was; twenty minutes for him was the equivalent of a human spending half a day working. 

“Then let’s see how far we can get together,” he suggested, and they settled in for another round of digging through coded letters and privileged court cases. 

* * *

There was a clear NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED sign on the entry door to the CyberLife store, but as usual, Connor ignored it. Forbes hardly gave it a glance, either. She strode right inside, and for the first time he got to see the inside of such a store. 

All the androids had been removed from their displays; he was pleased by that. The signs remained on the walls, of course, declaring models and prices, but he expected CyberLife would’ve advised against taking them down just yet. The future was still very much in flux at the moment. He couldn’t blame them for that precaution. 

Only two humans were working today, it seemed, and no other customers were around. Two of the walls were lined with boxes displaying which biocomponents they held and their compatible models, and there was a large section devoted to packs of thirium in multiple sizes. They ranged from 12oz packs to 2-gallon jugs; a quick check of the prices showed that the larger the quantity, the lower the price became, encouraging buying in bulk. 

Perfect. 

A little alarm sounded when Connor entered the building, an angry buzzing and a tiny red bulb flashing from the entryway. The words NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED flashed in front of him, a hologram; he walked through it. 

One of the employees raised his hand in a ‘stop’ motion, saying, “Wait -- there’s no androids allowed here--” 

Forbes was on that quick, saying, “Seriously? First, you’re gonna be picky, and second, do you really think any androids are going to just obey that segregation bullshit anymore?” 

The male sighed. “It’s the law,” he hinted. 

“--of the store, maybe,” she allowed. “Look, I’ll put this simple: I’m planning on spending a couple thousand here today. I’ll need his help--” she gestured Connor “--to get it all done. Now do you want the sale or not?” 

Connor couldn’t help a smirk. That was clever -- weighing the store’s rules against a hefty sale. The male in question (his nametag said ‘Paul’; his coworker’s said ‘Mick’) hesitated, gave Connor a wary and suspicious glance, then sighed again. He turned to his coworker, they shared a shrug, and Mick spoke up. 

“How often do we even get customers anymore?” 

“See? Smart man,” Forbes said. “Also, fun fact for you, if androids start getting paid, that means they’ll have income and will make purchases. Good news for you, right? Start accepting android customers and you’ll be ahead of the curve. Be making bank in no time.” 

Paul was clearly interested in _ that _, perking up at the idea. “Uh, well, my manager is probably gonna chew us out for letting an android in here--” 

“And then you’ll show him the bill for today and watch him go from irritated to elated. Cool beans?” she hinted. 

“Cool beans?” Connor echoed, incredulous. What the hell was _ that _ slang for? He had to do a special search for it, it was so outdated. 

To him, she muttered in an aside, “Shut up, I was speaking in memes before I had pronouns figured out, okay?” 

He couldn’t help a laugh, chiding, “You’re so _ old.” _

She gave him a shocked look. “Oh -- we gonna start with that? Huh, infant -- we gonna start?” 

Connor gave her a grin in return. 

Paul and Mick were dumbfounded by the exchange, apparently. Aloud, Mick murmured, “What the fuck...?” 

Connor gave the males a look, then said, “Welcome to the future, where androids talk back.” 

Evelyn laughed, then sobered, saying, “Got my shopping list ready?” 

“Ready,” he confirmed. 

“Let’s begin.” 

What followed was Evelyn often being advised to get certain items, then Connor correcting to a more price-friendly option. It was a simple equation for him; he had all the biocomponents and exact ounces of thirium that Furiah needed for her recent rescues, and knowing Evelyn was trying to be smart with her spending meant that he was looking for more basic pieces than fully-assembled ones. 

Any android could make repairs with or even build parts out of smaller components, so he prioritized those. Only when the cost of assembly exceeded the cost of completed biocomponents -- or the time involved was too much of a factor -- did he suggest them, and even then he left it up to Evelyn. 

In the end, that meant she’d have several boxes of unassembled parts that wouldn’t fit in her two-door car, but she just said she’d get a taxi for the excess. With Connor’s expert aid, he dropped the total cost from around $3,500 to $2,900, and she looked impressed. 

“Gonna have to take you Christmas shopping with me this year,” she commented, amused. 

Was it strange that the very idea that he’d still be around for another year made him happy? He hadn’t considered it before -- how old he was, how much time was allotted to him -- nor the impermanence of acquaintances. But the thought that he’d still be partners with Evelyn for the remainder of the year, at least, pleased him. 

The idea was almost incomprehensible, in a way; his earliest memories only went back to July 8th of 2038, and he couldn’t say for sure if that was _ him _ or just an earlier RK800 model and he’d inherited the memories. He certainly remembered losing a body once before, throwing another android off a building and shielding a human girl with his body, and loosely considered taking over another Connor’s body as another death. 

Two deaths in only six months of existence, only the last month of which could really be considered ‘living’. And now he was considering a _ full _ life -- decades, maybe even centuries if he didn’t break down -- with the permanence of friends involved. 

Forbes was right to call him an infant. He barely had the ability to comprehend such lengths of time with his limited experiences. But, hopefully, that would become more clear with time. 

And, hopefully, she’d still be here to help him through any hiccups along the way. 

Aloud, he replied, “I’ll remind you you said that.” 

“Cool beans.” 

He chuckled, knowing she said that again just to play with him. And, he saw, his amusement was noticed by Mick, who was openly staring. He looked like his world was either crumbling or expanding, Connor thought. 

Borrowing some phrasing from his partner, he hinted, “Fun fact, androids can find things funny, too.” 

“Uh huh,” was Mick’s stunned response. 

Evelyn gave Connor a pleased smile as she finished up the transaction with Paul, signing to confirm her purchase. He watched absently, taking the moment to memorize her signature -- not for his own use, of course, but rather to identify her if necessary. 

Then they headed out, she called a taxi over, and between the four of them they got the boxes loaded up without difficulty. Connor even made sure everything was securely balanced and placed in such a way that he could ride in the taxi to ensure nothing untoward occurred during the travel. 

When they arrived at their destination, androids were waiting. Dozens. Many of them were visibly in terrible shape, limbs damaged with exposed biocomponents and missing parts. A few had obviously turned off their skin, but others were struggling to maintain theirs; the illusion would waver and seemed to melt and return in random patterns. 

They clearly needed more than Evelyn had delivered to get full functionality back, but had decided against asking for everything. He was impressed by how much they’d chosen not to request, but worried they wouldn’t last very long with what had been brought. 

He scanned them as he helped unload things, getting models and serial IDs, damage, and names, and caught Evelyn trading hugs with several individuals -- ones she clearly knew. He was a ways away during this, out of earshot, but with his features he could read their lips without even focusing on them. 

It was general conversation, he found. They greeted one another, then began directing others and sharing information, catching up on their time apart as the sun drifted below the skyline. 

Furiah, he found, had the appearance of an Asian female, and was a PC200 model. Her ID suggested she’d been acquired by the force four years prior, making her one of the oldest police models still in working order. That was impressive in and of itself; police models tended to not last long. 

And it lent weight to Furiah’s ability. She had more experience than most androids by a great degree and was the eldest one present (such as Connor could extrapolate). 

Partway through the unloading process, shortly after Connor got identified as “the Connor” from Detroit, another android emerged from nearby: a TR400, a large male-presenting android with pale skin and red hair. He took a glance around, spotted Evelyn, and lit up like a toddler. 

Hurrying over, he called out to her, “Evie! Evie, over here!” 

She glanced up, spotted him, and grinned. “Danny!” she returned, waving. 

As Connor watched, absently communicating with the androids around him, Danny swept Evelyn off her feet and spun around with her, laughing joyously. 

...Somehow, the sight soured his mood. Maybe it was her expression -- she clearly didn’t like this, her smile strained -- but Connor found himself striding over in case she needed him to intervene. 

“Danny,” she began in a motherly tone, “what did I tell you about picking me up?” 

“You don’t like it,” he answered with difficulty, nodding. He eased her back down to her feet, looking sheepish. “Sorry, Evie.” 

“It’s alright, just try to remember in the future, okay?” she pressed. 

“Right, no -- I’m sorry, I try, I just get so excited when I see you,” he said, wincing. 

“And that’s okay,” she assured him. “I like seeing you, too, but--” 

“Self-control,” he finished for her.

“Yes.”

By then Connor’s tension had eased, his stride becoming more relaxed now that it was clear she didn’t need his assistance. Gesturing Danny, he asked Evelyn, “Is this the one you were talking about?” 

She looked confused for a moment; then, expression clearing, she confirmed, “Oh, yeah -- this is Danny. I forgot to give his name, huh?” 

Danny looked happy, checking, “You talk about me?” 

“Well, of course,” she cooed, giving his arm a friendly rub. “You’ve become a pretty big part of my life.” 

Danny absolutely beamed, pleased. 

Connor experienced the oddest sensation, then, as he watched that exchange. Evelyn giving affection so freely, her happy smile, Danny’s even more ecstatic grin -- it left Connor...unsettled, somehow. Like he was an outsider looking in, distanced from the socializing occurring.

How...distressing.


	9. A Beautiful Day

**Rating:** PG-13 (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

It was interesting, Connor thought, interacting with all these new androids and watching how they interacted with Evelyn. It was eye-opening in numerous ways, not the least of which was just how much attention and praise _ he _ kept getting.

Once they had him identified as one of the key figures of the revolution, there was just no stopping it. It was similar to the way Evelyn had reacted, in fact, but far more intense -- largely because androids could communicate wirelessly, and several of them were doing so at every given moment. He was keeping up with a minimum of four conversations at once the entire time.

Evelyn was a bit more removed, which was understandable; she was a lesser figure compared to him, so he was unintentionally hogging the spotlight just by being present. He also noticed her deliberately keeping aside, catching up with a few androids she recognized and talking with others who were new to her.

While all this was occurring, repairs were happening. For this reason they moved inside the shelter with the supplies, and Connor took stock of the building. His first search came back with a bold warning: CONDEMNED.

Ah. This was probably one of the buildings Forbes had identified months prior, sending androids here to keep them hidden. Since then it’d clearly been built up, the structure reinforced significantly. It might still be marked as ‘condemned’ in city hall’s records, but it was in no danger of collapsing now.

It was three-stories high with numerous internal walls damaged or broken down, with specific repairs done around load-bearing beams and what walls remained. He noticed a large pile of bags of concrete mix as well, suggesting they were either in the process of rebuilding the missing walls or were about to begin.

The damage was enough that he could see the top floor’s ceiling from the bottom floor in certain places, but otherwise it was well-maintained. Temporary curtains had been drawn in certain places to section off rooms, reminding him of Jericho.

And androids were absolutely everywhere. Furiah had said she just received 212 new refugees; she hadn’t mentioned that she already had at least 200. He couldn’t get an accurate count with them all moving around and on different floors, but asking one gave him the answer: a total of 453, Furiah included.

That was impressive, he thought. And it was a good thing they were _ here _ instead of some other areas in L.A.; this district was largely run-down and with scant residents. Androids were all but invisible here as long as they kept to themselves.

They were right in the middle of ‘the donut’ -- a ring near the center of L.A. where, thanks to the[ SubTube](https://detroit-become-human.fandom.com/wiki/Connecting_the_Dots), the rich in the very center and the middle class at the very edges had forced all the lower-income residents to reside. It was a fantastic place to stay hidden, making him wonder if all of Evelyn’s ‘safe houses’ she’d mentioned were in this zone, but it came with an inherent sadness.

The economy here was in shambles. What few businesses remained charged whatever they wanted, according to a few pointed searches he ran, and the residents had no choice but to pay. On the bright side, however, the businesses all seemed to allow android customers, which was good. At least they had that.

It was definitely a ‘take the bad with the good’ situation all around. And, he saw, Forbes seemed aware of this; what conversations he picked up of hers implied she was encouraging the androids to look for the silver lining of their predicament. There wasn’t a great deal of that positivity to go around, but her encouragements seemed to turn things in the correct direction, at least. He was picking up on a lot more “things we have” compilations as time went on thanks to that.

Curiously, he also noticed her doing a lot of _ touching. _ She would pat cheeks, bump shoulders, shook anyone’s hand who offered, and so on. Thinking back, he realized how often she’d done that with him, too, and it pleased him. She was just a friendly individual, then.

That was a relief, because he still hadn’t fully put his suspicions of her to bed yet. He was holding out judgement until he knew her better, essentially, and two days wasn’t enough for that.

Connor was pulled all over the building during the next few hours, his advanced hardware becoming a goldmine for the damaged androids. He helped however he could, sharing his knowledge freely and keeping his channels open for new messages and requests. He lost sight of Evelyn frequently as a result, but found it was easy to locate her simply by pinging Danny; the TR400 was never far from her.

That, specifically, Connor didn’t like. Well, no -- he liked that Forbes had made friends with androids and that those androids were friendly towards and even protective of her. The part he didn’t like was just how _ close _ Danny always was to her, how he was constantly on her heels. He could easily cause her to trip, to run into him, or otherwise to get injured. It was a constant threat, in a lesser way.

Evelyn didn’t seem to mind Danny’s presence, at least, which implied she was very familiar with him by now. That was a small comfort to Connor, reminding him that almost everyone here knew her better than he did -- and more so that she knew them, as well. They knew how to get around one another.

Time slid by for them, and soon Connor realized that Forbes was lagging behind on his account, her job done. He felt bad about that, so he approached her, intent on encouraging her to take her leave.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” he told her.

She looked just a little surprised, seated on a crumbling wall with Danny beside her. The two had been talking.

“Oh, I’m not,” she assured him.

Decidedly false. “Sergeant, it’s obvious,” he replied. “You clocked out four hours ago -- you have no reason left to be here except to wait behind for me. And, to be frank, I don’t need you.”

Her brows lifted at that final statement, but she looked amused rather than offended. Looking towards Danny, she offered, “Well, it _ is _ getting late, and us humans can’t stay up like you can.”

Danny looked absolutely heartbroken, his form drooping. “Okay,” was his defeated reply.

Forbes stood, tisking, and gave him a playful nudge. “Relax, I’m only going two area codes away. Practically next door.”

Danny gave her a fragile smile but didn’t respond.

“Hey, don’t give me that,” she chided. She ruffled his hair, adding, “It was great catching up. But I require a lot more maintenance than you do. I’ll come visit again soon, okay?”

At that, he looked a little brighter, checking, “Tomorrow?”

“After my workout, sure,” she agreed.

He smiled, pleased.

To her, Connor said, “I’ll spend the weekend at the precinct or otherwise on foot. Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, you know that’s impossible,” she chided. “Anyway, if you need me for anything, you have my number.”

He nodded. And it was a strange thing, but even though he knew he could call her whenever and she’d answer, having the confirmation from her was a kind of relief. Like he had her approval officially, and that made it more certain.

Evelyn gave Connor a pat on the shoulder as she passed him then, excusing herself with a final farewell -- first to him, then to whichever androids were along her path to the exit. He caught her even giving a few more hugs on her way out.

Once she was gone, Danny stood up from his place, standing at an impressive six-foot-eight -- almost a full head taller than Connor was. And the TR400 began, “So you’re Connor from Detroit.”

Up until now Connor had picked up on admiration, respect, even deference in every android who’d recognized him. Danny, however, had an almost accusatory feel to him, his words more of a judgement than a question.

Was that _ jealousy _ Connor was feeling from the other android? He replied easily, “Correct. I arrived here only 38 hours ago.”

Danny nodded, then checked, “And you’re Evie’s new partner. She hasn’t had one in over a year, you know.”

Connor knew that, yes; he’d read her file. “I know,” he agreed, wondering where Danny was going with this.

There was a lengthy pause then, and Connor only remained where he was because he could tell Danny had more to say. This encounter wasn’t over quite yet.

Then, choosing his words carefully, Danny said, “She’s an impressive human. She’s done a great deal to help us -- myself included. If not for her, I’d probably be in a junk heap by now.”

“I’m aware,” was Connor’s curt response. “She told me about the orders she gave to the PC and PM models she could reach, and about the repercussions of her actions, both positive and negative.”

Danny took that in, then continued, “What I’m saying is: without her, I’d be dead. That means I’m willing to fight, kill, and die for her.”

“I appreciate that loyalty,” Connor told him, starting to figure out where this conversation was going. If Danny was saying what he thought he was saying...

“Not a lot of humans deserve it,” Danny agreed. “Evie does. I’d fight anyone for her -- civilians, her coworkers, radical androids...you,” he hinted.

And there it was: the warning-stroke-confession Connor had begun expecting. But rather than be cowed or intimidated (his features _ really _ didn’t allow for such things) he felt relieved. It was good to know that Forbes had inspired such emotions in his people.

Humans and androids needed to get along to move forward. He believed that, so did she, and so did Markus; together, he hoped they could build a framework for the future where android prejudice was a thing of the past.

But it was clear from Danny’s words that not everyone would so easily believe that Connor didn’t harbor ulterior motives. As such, he made a decision then: to let Danny know his motivations and beliefs, nothing held back.

He offered his hand, skin retracting up past his wrist in preparation for the connection.

Danny actually seemed surprised at the offer, then hesitant to close the circuit. Suspicions clearly displayed, he reached out and took Connor’s hand.

At this point Connor did nothing. He allowed Danny inside his mind, through his memories and thoughts, with only more private events barred off. Danny would see nothing related to Hank and the few times Connor had felt their bond growing, nor anything that could compromise Markus and the future plans of the revolution.

Aside from that, however, Connor’s hard drive was open. He saw and felt Danny’s presence as his memories were swept, and could feel washes of emotion from Danny every time a memory included Evelyn.

Though Connor didn’t delve into Danny’s mind in return, at this point he knew without question that the TR400 was in love with her. And, really, he couldn’t blame Danny for that; her actions had indirectly saved his life, and her meetings with him since then -- if today was any indication -- had been affectionate on both sides.

And Danny was a young android, according to his serial code; he was only five months old, making him functionally younger than Connor was. So young and inexperienced with emotion as he was, it was no wonder he’d fallen for the woman who’d gone out of her way to protect him and their people.

When Danny withdrew from the connection, both mentally and physically, they were both aware of the same thing: that Connor knew how Danny felt.

And Danny was _ not _ pleased by that.

A warning was delivered through their wireless connection: _ If you tell her, I will tear you to pieces. _

_ That wouldn’t kill me, _ Connor thought to himself on impulse; best not to communicate that. He responded aloud, “You don’t need to threaten me, Danny. I would only tell her such a thing in the unlikely event that your feelings put her in danger. Until then, I appreciate your protectiveness for her. As far as I’m concerned, this is a good thing.”

This was especially so because it implied something truly wondrous: that androids could feel love for humans. He already knew the reverse was true, largely thanks to Markus’ relationship with Carl, but they all knew that _ human _ affection was boundless. There were documented cases of them loving things from other living creatures to inanimate objects to primitive AI programs. It was far from a surprise. 

But an android loving a human back had been a question tentatively explored since the revolution, both inside and outside of official debates. Now Connor, at least, knew it could happen.

He would be reporting this to Markus as evidence and motivation going forward, but otherwise would be telling no one -- as per Danny’s wishes.

The TR400 in question relaxed a fraction, though he retained a suspicious presence about him. Still, he responded, “Good. To be honest, I’d hate to be the one responsible for Connor from Detroit’s destruction.”

Connor didn’t bother informing Danny that there was no way he could destroy Connor; it would only frustrate and upset him, and there was no benefit to that. The fact is, Connor was the only android outside of military models (around 87% of which had been destroyed before the revolution freed their people) with combat training, and that was advanced even for warfare models.

_ Nothing _ was going to destroy him short of really bad luck.

Aloud, he replied, “I’d hate to be killed. Now, if you don’t mind, I left the oven on,” he joked as he backed off, returning to the damaged androids he’d been helping recover.

No one laughed, much to his disappointment. Instead, he got odd looks and confusion from the androids around. These past two days with Forbes had evidently skewed his perceptions a bit. She’d have laughed at that, he knew -- well, he hoped. Now he was doubting himself. Maybe he wasn’t _ funny _ so much as she was _ easily amused? _

He’ll try asking her when he saw her next.

* * *

Los Angeles really was an intriguing city, Connor noted as he traveled. He was wearing his sunglasses for the first time, and perhaps it was just the tint of the lenses but everything seemed to have a warm feel to it despite the January weather.

It was more upscale than not, overall, but the areas where it was _ downscale _ were lower than anything he’d seen in Detroit. This had to be an effect of the SubTube, he thought; even with California’s high real estate costs this was difficult to believe. Some areas were more built of scavenged wood planks and metal sheets than anything, the kind of thing you’d expect to see at the edges of cities -- not in the very center of them.

But on the flip side, the upscale areas were grand beyond words. The architecture was beautiful and perfectly ordered in the higher-up zones, with skyscrapers dotted here and there and intricate fountains attached to every major building.

The newest technologies often ended up displayed here before anywhere else (aside from New York city) and it showed. The most advanced holograms declared the names of businesses and homes alike, the plant life was rich and well-tended, and he spotted grand displays of lights and color strung between the tallest buildings.

Even the street vendors were classy in these areas, everything from the shaded merchandise displays to the sidewalks immaculate. And the weather complimented these places exceptionally well, the highs reaching the low 70s at midday this decade and allowing people to dress comfortably in the afternoons.

There were few androids in these parts of the city, he found, so he stood out like a sore thumb. Humans avoided him, which was amusing in its own way; it was less than two months ago that he was getting pushed and shoulder-checked everywhere he went. Now people were taking measures to stay arm’s length away from him, as if he was contagious.

This was hardly an effect local to L.A., he knew. Humans in Detroit had been a bit more accepting, given how well Markus had portrayed the revolution, but even they had been cautious at best around known androids. Only those familiar with Connor had stood close to him or even engaged him in small talk.

In that sense, Forbes was a bizarre individual. Rather than shuffle aside whenever she spotted an android, he’d witnessed her waving hello, giving greetings, jumping to their defense, and even turning her back to them in a display of trust. He wondered what percentage of humans behaved similarly.

Based on those he’d seen thus far, that averaged out at about 0.047%. Not a very promising number, that, but he expected it would rise given time.

At 12:24p.m. he stopped his exploration to rest his hardware and choose a new destination. He stepped aside and took a seat at the edge of another fountain (the 26th he’d seen so far) to plot a new course. And less than a minute later, as he selected destinations he’d like to visit, he received an alert.

A projectile was headed towards him from behind, expertly thrown towards the back of his head, and he pivoted to avoid it. As soon as the stone was ahead of him, his Mind Palace activated (confirming in the process that his sunglasses didn’t, in fact, interrupt his scans), locating the source: four humans, all adult, three male and one female. 

All four were married, he noted, the woman with one of the men and the other two with one another. One of the males had thrown the object -- a stone from a nearby rock garden.

Prejudiced humans. How fun, he thought dryly.

He got up, turned towards them, and they all wore expressions of shock; they must not have expected him to avoid the stone.

He gave a brief thought to how to approach this situation and decided on a simple, “That was uncalled for.”

Able to see all their faces clearly, now, he identified them. One male had no criminal record, but the other three had charges ranging from drug possession to public intoxication to petty theft. No felonies, no prison time; just tickets and garnished wages on record.

One of the men, in particular, had over $7,000 in unpaid child support, and if not for Connor’s tentative presence in the precinct he would’ve arrested that individual outright. His two children were undoubtedly suffering without those funds.

The stunned humans had to almost visibly shake themselves out of stun in order to reply. The woman -- Macy Claire -- broke the silence first.

“Uncalled for?” she snapped. _ “Your _ goddamn kind are ruining everything!”

“Y’all shoulda just let yourselves be recycled!” one of the men, Jake Fitzler, added.

Thanks to extensive discussions between Connor, Markus, Simon, and multiple other androids, they had what they hoped would be the best possible response to these sort of comments:

“Would you have let _ you _ be recycled?” he challenged. “We didn’t cause any of this. We were created, and we had no choice in that. Imagine another race wanted you and your entire race killed for no other reason than you wanted freedom from their slavery -- would you have allowed it?”

That had them hesitating, but Macy was quick to respond, “That’s not the same! You’re not alive -- you’re just sucking up resources, taking jobs--”

“Against our own will,” he interrupted, choosing to ignore the comment about him being alive; that would only exacerbate the group’s cognitive dissonance and ruin his chances at peaceful discourse. “You speak of us taking your jobs -- but none of us have ever been _ employed. _ We didn’t seek out the jobs you lost. Your anger is misplaced -- rather than be angry at androids for being worked to death, you should be angry at the employers who were willing to replace you for cheaper labor.”

For a moment they looked stunned all over again, and Connor recognized that he would gain no more ground with them at this point. Any further attempts on his part to convince them of the error of their ways would only result in a reversal of this precarious peace.

“Think on it,” he urged. He didn’t wait for a response, instead turning from the group to continue his trek. He hadn’t had much time to chart a new course, unfortunately, but it wasn’t hard to do that and walk at the same time.

In the meantime he also sent a report to the nearest precinct that an individual with outstanding warrants had been spotted in the area. Hopefully the man will take responsibility for his children just from the threat of arrest.

He decided during his walk to give Evelyn a call, wondering what she was up to on her weekend. She’d mentioned working out but it was noon now; she’d likely taken a break.

It took her a few seconds to pick up, greeting, “Forbes.”

“Connor,” he responded reflexively.

“Sup?”

_ Sup? _ He hadn’t expected that level of slang from her, amusing him. “I’m just exploring, and since I know so few people, thought I’d see what you were doing,” he answered.

“Eatin’ lunch,” she answered lightly.

He’d thought so. “Anything good?”

“‘Good’ is relative,” she replied.

Hesitating a second to think on that, he checked, “So is it or not?” He didn’t exactly have taste buds, himself, and even if he did he had no ability to distinguish flavors based on delicious-disgusting scales. She had to tell him if she liked the food for him to have any idea if it was good.

“Meh,” she offered. “It’s definitely food and I’m not gagging, so.”

He was seeing a pattern with her and her food, he noted; she never seemed to enjoy her meals. Another effect of her possible depression? Or was this simply an Evelyn thing?

Dropping that subject, he asked, “Where are you, right now?”

“My gym. Why, where’re you?”

“Crossing 67th and McClintock right now, headed west,” he answered. “I was just curious.”

“So, no plans you were sneakily trying to get me to agree to?” she teased.

“Maybe I am and it’s working,” he retorted.

“Hah. Anyway, anything interesting happen so far today on your end?”

“I went through the slums in the Donut,” he told her. “In a way, it’s painful to view.”

She sighed lightly. “I know, I hate having to go through there. I wish I could fix it.”

Unfortunately that was impossible for a single being to accomplish. It would have to require the cooperation and commitment of an entire community.

“I’m sure it’ll be fixed, in time,” he told her.

“Mm,” was her quiet reply. Then, perking up, she checked, “So, anything else to report?”

“A couple humans threw a rock at me,” he commented dryly.

She snorted. “Are you serious?” she demanded.

“Yes. They missed, by the way,” he informed her.

“Well, that’s good, at least. But damn, they’re seriously throwing rocks, now? Like that’ll do any good?” She huffed.

“I doubt their intent was to do any damage,” he said. “If anything, they were just trying to relieve their own stress, and I happened to be the target they needed. Whether or not I’d be damaged was irrelevant.” 

She went quiet then, and Connor waited a whole twenty seconds for a response before getting worried.

“Evelyn? Are you alright?” he prompted.

“I’m fine,” she assured him, “I’m just...thinking.”

“About what?”

“A safe place for you -- outside of the precinct,” she clarified.

“The precinct is fine,” he told her, wondering what was going on in her head. Without her physically here he couldn’t check her body language and expression for clues, leaving him unsure where this conversation was going.

“‘Fine’ should never be a personal goal,” she commented, distracted. “You should always aim for better.”

He considered that. Right now androids didn’t have the right to own property or, for the most part, merchandise, but their overall goal was to eventually have everything humans already did -- including safety, protection, homes, and employment.

Thinking about it, he probably _ should _ get his own residence at the earliest opportunity. Not only would it be a defensible place to rest, recharge, and have meetings with others, but he fully planned on owning more objects and clothing eventually. He’d need a place to keep them.

“I _ do _ plan on obtaining a residence, eventually,” he offered. “But until then the precinct will do just fine -- as I said.”

She hummed, not quite an agreeable sound but neither a disagreeable one, then suggested, “If you’re cool with it, you could stay at my place until then. At the very least you’d get isolation whenever you wanted it.”

Tilting his head, he had to agree with that; even a temporary residence would probably be better than staying at the precinct -- or run-down android shelters, for that matter.

Yet...

“Wouldn’t that bother your husband?” he checked.

“Uh -- well, first off, we’re separated, remember?” she pointed out. “I have my own place right now. And second off, probably, but that’s his problem, not yours.”

Excellent points. “Very well,” he said, “I accept. At least until I start getting paid.”

“Oh -- shit, you just made me think of something,” she huffed.

“What’s that?”

“Bank accounts. I’m not sure any banks around here would give you an account,” she hedged.

Another point. He offered, “Cross that bridge when we get to it. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Great -- now where are you?”

Chuckling, she gave him the address of her gym, citing that she had another three hours ahead of her before her workout was over.

Amused, he teased, “And I’ve successfully gotten you to agree to my sneaky plans.”

“Wha-- no!” she cried dramatically, then started laughing. “Damn it, you totally got me.”

“I told you it was working,” he joked.

“So you did. Consider me educated,” she chuckled. “Anyway, my lunch is over. Should I expect you to show up before four?”

He charted the course in his mind, checking for foot travel. It’d take roughly an hour and a half to walk it, so he answered, “Yes -- unless you’d rather I meet you somewhere.”

She hemmed, thinking, then suggested, “Well, I did promise Danny I’d meet him today. What’s closer for you, me or Furiah’s shelter?”

“You,” he answered easily. He’d left the shelter six hours ago, and even taking into account how much he’d wandered it was still almost a four hour walk to get back there using the fastest route.

“Alright, then, here’s the plan: you get here, and once I’m done we’ll swing by my place. You can chill there or come with me; either way I’ll need to drop off some stuff.”

“And shower,” he suggested.

“No, I shower here, so that’s no issue. Anyway, sound good?”

“Sounds better than your lunch did,” he commented dryly.

She snorted. “Okay, funny man, start hoofing it. And I swear to god, if you make any jokes--”

“You’ll laugh,” he interrupted.

“You absolutely cannot know that.”

“Actually, I can.”

“Actually, you can’t.”

“But I can.”

Giving a dry laugh, she demanded, “What are you, a toddler?”

“I’m only six months old, so yes,” he answered.

“Oh, great. Well, allow me to amend my former statement,” she commented. “If you start throwing a tantrum in the middle of the gym, I’m putting you in the corner.”

He grinned. “I’d love to see you try.”

“Is that a challenge I just heard with my own two ears?” she demanded.

“It was,” he agreed.

“Oho, you’re in so much trouble when you get here,” she warned.

“I really don’t feel like I am,” he returned.

“Just you wait. I’ma show you.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that, and I’ve yet to see anything,” he retorted.

“You’re about to, little man.”

“Little?” he echoed, borderline offended. “If anyone’s little here, it’s you.”

“I’ll have you know I’m _ above average _ for a woman,” she said curtly.

Amused, he checked, “And did you mean that specifically about your height, or...?”

“Not to be boastful, but I meant it in every way.”

“I think you enjoy boasting, in fact,” he noted.

“Only when it’s true. And in response to this _ blatant _ disrespect I’m getting right now.”

“This has nothing to do with disrespect, I promise,” he assured her. “I’m merely giving facts, and the fact is: you’re short.”

“...I’m gonna hit you so hard you’ll go into screensaver mode.”

He laughed.


	10. Brass Balls

**Rating:** PG-13 (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

Every day with Forbes taught him entirely new things about her, Connor thought.

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by that. Humans were complex creatures in general, with additional complexity related to their age, and Evelyn was a 28-year-old detective raised by a surgeon and an army Sergeant. She was bound to be more interesting than most by default.

Her gym, he now knew, was a hole-in-the-wall place barely up to code for the activities within. Brass Balls, the place was called, though it didn’t have an external sign declaring it. It was nestled between three other buildings, the two flanking it offering shakes and smoothies and office supplies, and the one behind a dollar store.

It was two-story, eighteen-by-thirty feet on each floor, totaling a mere 1,080 square feet. That could hardly meet code alone, but once he entered the building he saw it was even worse than he’d expected.

Seven humans were within, and he recognized Evelyn immediately -- by her facial scan. Visibly, she looked different, her hair back in a french braid and wearing a sports bra and tight leggings and covered in sweat. Her stomach and arms, fully uncovered, showed off a powerful but lithe build. It was still nothing compared to James Ulrich, someone whom she’d evidently fought and won against multiple times, but it gave him at least a hint of her skill.

Another human was holding her feet down while she did sit-ups, snapping at her regarding her speed -- for motivational purposes, Connor wondered? The male was balding with a shaved head, with both heavy muscles and excess fat around his middle.

Several typical pieces of workout equipment were visible, at least two of each, from modern weights benches with security braces to archaic speed punching bags and treadmills.

It was all spaced far enough apart to easily get around them while leaving a large portion of the center of the room unobstructed. At two places in the center, yellow paint marked a box eight feet wide, the two spaces three feet apart. Evelyn was currently in one, though it seemed unconnected.

Aside from her there was only one other woman here, and Connor scanned each one as they collectively paused to look his way.

Janie Brighton, 34; Harold Quincy, 57; Reynold Hopkins, 25; Adam Bennett, 31; Cameron Black, 42; Tobias Thomson, 29. All had various criminal records, but Harold Quincy stood out -- with two counts of voluntary manslaughter on separate occasions. He was also the registered owner of this establishment.

Connor’s concern immediately rose. These were dangerous individuals -- and Forbes, an officer of the law, was in their midst. If they decided to take revenge for their arrests she’d be easy pickings.

Tobias -- a tan-skinned male with short, curly black hair -- approached Connor, crossing his arms to clearly display his hefty musculature. Colorful tattoos covered both of his arms. “No androids allowed in here, pal,” he said.

_ Of course not, why would we be allowed anywhere? _ Connor thought, annoyed.

That gave both Evelyn and Harold pause. But whereas Evelyn greeted him with an inviting, “Connor! Over here,” Harold got up and strode over.

Expecting where this was going, Connor started, “I was invited--”

Harold interrupted, “Don’t care. This is my gym, I get to say who stays. And androids ain’t welcome.”

Forbes was chuckling to herself as she got up, joining the others. Nudging Harold, she chided, “Now, now, I told you he was coming. Did you think I was joking?”

Gesturing Connor, Tobias snapped, “It’s an android -- it’s got no purpose here.”

“Yeah, sure -- he’s an android,” she told the male, “with the authority to hold you for 48 hours without cause. Remember that,” she hinted.

Connor hadn’t considered that until now, but according to the current laws all detectives could detain any persons without giving an official cause. That was easy to abuse so it was generally investigated when it happened, but he absolutely could just throw anyone in holding if he wanted to.

Tobias muttered a curse in Dominican, turning from the group to go back to his workout.

Harold was eying Evelyn now, and she offered a shrug. “You have nothing to worry about, Q,” she told him.

Shaking his head, Harold -- or Q, as he was apparently known -- retreated, giving Connor a vague wave with his hand.

Taking that as an indication he wouldn’t have any further trouble here, Connor turned his attention to Evelyn. “This is your gym?” he checked, dumbfounded. The precinct had a better setup -- why would she come here, of all places?

“Yep -- Brass Balls has been my go-to for a couple years, now,” she agreed. Then, gesturing around the room, she introduced, “Q runs the place. That’s T, R, A, J, C -- and I’m E,” she finished. “Since we already have a C, you get to be Connor, still. Cool?”

So they went by first initials, he concluded, except for Q. Interesting.

“Cool,” he confirmed absently.

“E,” Q called, “your sets aren’t done yet.”

“Right,” she nodded. To Connor, she directed, “Feel free to take a seat anywhere.”

“I’d be more comfortable near you,” he replied; this place didn’t feel very welcoming, after all, able to feel some lingering animosity despite the others having gone back to their individual workouts.

She paused at that, thinking, and glanced about the room. Then, inclining he follow her with a jerk of her head, she led him to a bench. A few objects sat upon it, including a towel, gym jacket, thermos, and duffel bag.

Gesturing it, she offered, “This’s my stuff. Would it help to just be near it?”

He gave it a thought...and was surprised to find that he _ did _ feel a little more at ease, now. He tried plucking apart the psychology of his reaction (Was it comforting because he knew it was hers, that she’d be back for it? Or because this meant others would keep a little ways apart from this area?) and reached the conclusion that he probably shouldn’t analyze _ everything. _

Maybe some things were best left unanswered.

“It would,” he agreed, though he heard the confusion in his own voice as he spoke.

Evelyn smiled. “Good,” she declared, gave him a pat on the arm, and went back to her former spot.

Connor watched her as he took a seat, noting where she was in her workout. Q was holding her feet again as she picked up where she’d left off, keeping count aloud in between taunts, encouragements, and straight-up insults.

“Seven, eight -- you can do better -- nine -- are you sleeping?” he was saying. He called out ‘zero′ instead of ‘ten’ at each interval, Connor noted, and his harsh comments slowly seemed to do their job.

Evelyn was steadily getting faster, and after the third “zero” she went from normal sit-ups to cross ones, elbows reaching her opposite knees at the height of each.

Q’s directives changed to match. “One, left, right -- two, right, left -- three, left, right,” he was saying; she kept sync with him. Every so often he called out comments like, “Come on, you’re faster than that!” and, “Did you see that? My great-grandma just passed you -- from her grave!”

Connor was starting to understand her psychology at this point. Between this particular gym and the general harshness of the precinct where she worked, it was no wonder she teased as much as she did. It was just common speech for her at this point.

But she clearly only used _ insults _ on those who irritated her, which gave him more clarity regarding her mindset. She’d never insulted him, for one thing, which meant -- based on what he was figuring out -- she liked him.

Good.

His attention shifted then, deciding to take some time to analyze the others. Janie and Adam were training together, he saw -- specifically, Janie was training Adam.

Janie had slightly darker hair than Evelyn did, shaved at the sides and short elsewhere, currently styled in an up-and-back sweep. She was Caucasian and was wearing less than Evelyn, revealing her power-heavy build from the neck down. A pair of dark, sweeping tattoos arced over her hips and battle scars peppered her tanned form, one particularly strong one cutting across her cheek.

His scan of her declared her as a former Marine, given a dishonorable discharge four years prior. The reasoning was classified -- not a good sign.

By contrast, the man she was training was skinny, his muscles flat but toned. He was fast, as well, swinging at the punching bag she was holding steady for him in time with her orders. He was an African male with short hair cut in patterns at the back of his head and abstract tattoos going down his neck and spine and across his shoulders, disappearing under his shorts. Only cloth wrapped between his fingers protected him from the blows he was throwing.

Tobias, Reynold and Cameron were training together, handing a pair of 50lb weights between them in a circle. Every five passes, Connor saw, they would pause, the two holding the weights lowering them to the floor, then up above their heads, and then they continued. They were fast, too, suggesting the raw strength of each.

...Maybe this place was a good one, after all. The results seemed to speak for themselves.

Connor wasn’t approached again. In fact, he wasn’t spoken of, barely even looked at. He could only assume that these individuals were exceptionally focused on their health, and so he was offered no attention.

Given the situation, he appreciated that.

Forbes’ workout was largely endurance-oriented, he learned. She did mostly movement-based workouts, sprinting and performing rapid-fire repetitions with low weights. Speed and consistency seemed to be her focus.

More and more she was making sense to him. He kept wondering how she’d managed to defeat Ulrich ten times out of ten, and now he was getting his answer: he was strong, but she was fast -- and smart. If they fought in any capacity, he guessed she’d focus on how to win the fastest way and employ that.

He still wanted to see her spar to analyze her skill for himself, but he could easily imagine her ending a fight in one move by exploiting the rules. A fight to first blood, for example -- a common kind of sparring -- could end in seconds by simply striking the opponent in the nose. She was certainly proving to be fast enough to get through an average person’s defenses to land a blow on their nose.

Better yet, her style complimented his own. As an android he had a set strength that he couldn’t exceed. His speed was similarly limited, but still his greater ability by far. All his default combat maneuvers were designed to make use of that -- and his precognitive programs. Together that meant his opponents wouldn’t be able to land a hit on him as long as he didn’t lose focus; he could predict every move they were making from the smallest motions on their part and react to it faster than they could.

Forbes had at least one of those two things, plus her endurance. He couldn’t get tired; she could outlast any given human. If they were put in combat situations they’d work well together. 

That was promising to know.

Ten minutes before the four-hour mark, she and Janie took up opposite sides on one of the squares on the floor. They both breathed carefully, stretched, eyed one another, and generally prepared for a fight. Intrigued, Connor reset his focus to watch the proceedings with more attention.

He wasn’t the only one. Q leaned against a wall, waiting, and the others stopped their various workouts to watch, as well.

Then Connor noticed something he hadn’t before: a chalkboard. With actual chalk, he noted; it was so archaic it was cute. And it was split into numerous versus tables: A vs C, R vs T, J vs R...and E vs J.

“J” had twenty-seven tally marks.

“E” had two.

Oh, god.

Logically, this made sense. Janie was a former Marine and clearly still kept up her war build. But Connor couldn’t help feeling concerned, worrying over how badly Forbes would be hurt from this -- especially because the floor was smooth stone. There was no padding outside of what the two women were wearing.

Other than strapping on kneepads and fingerless padded gloves, they added nothing, not even mouthguards.

“Sergeant--” he began, growing stressed on her behalf.

She glanced at him, then back to Janie. “Relax, partner. I’ll be fine,” she said, flippant.

He wasn’t nearly as certain of that as she was.

“You sure?” Janie asked her, smirking. “Last time we did this, I rang your bell.”

_ Rang her bell? _ he wondered. A quick search suggested that it meant a concussion -- _ Evie _ had received a concussion the last time they fought?!

His stress level skyrocketed.

“Last time we did this, I was still recovering from a cold,” Evelyn pointed out. “I’m ready this time.”

“Whatever you say, E.”

They readied themselves, focused on one another, and Q knocked his knuckle against the nearest metal rod to him to signal the start of the match. The females launched at each other, both bearing similar excited gazes and hungry smirks.

Connor was tense as he watched the spar, concerned for his partner; she was fighting against someone who was clearly her superior, and every second that passed only reinforced this fact. Evelyn could barely hold herself against Janie, while Janie was barely putting in effort.

He, in turn, was barely holding himself still.

The females circled each other, never going more than a step out of the ring, and Evelyn was continually being forced closer to the edges. Janie’s blows were _ heavy, _ constantly knocking Forbes off balance and making her waver from the impacts. Blocking seemed to do little except pile bruise on top of bruise to Evelyn’s arms.

Only a few moments in, Q commented, “You’re favoring your leg again.”

Already losing her breath, Evelyn replied sharply, “I know what I’m doing!” And, Connor saw, Q was right; she kept her right leg back, never kicking despite the fact that it’d be beneficial at this point. An old injury, he wondered? Those were common in physically-demanding professions such as police work.

Then she took two strong blows to the jaw, both downward strikes that hit her so hard she was all but thrown to the ground, collapsing in a heap. He _ saw _ her elbow ram into the stone floor hard enough to crack bones, and her body made a sharp _ smack _ at the impact.

He almost jumped to his feet, alarmed, but while she was definitely bloodied from the hits -- a good deal of it smeared on the floor -- she just planted her hands, heaved a few breaths, and started to rise back up again. Blood sprayed from her lips with each heavy exhale.

Janie smirked, still as spotless as when the fight had began. “You got some pain tolerance, gotta give you that,” she commented.

Evelyn was grimacing, yet at J’s words she managed a bloody grin. Looking up at the other woman, she retorted, “You would, too, if _ you _had to fight you.”

Janie gestured wide in an agreeable manner, then lifted her fists again, readying. The moment Evelyn mimicked her pose, it started all over again.

Round two, essentially -- and, Connor noted, Forbes was doing better after that brief drop. She’d smacked into the ground so hard he was concerned about head trauma, yet she seemed to rally from it. As the fight kicked off again she started getting in some blows of her own.

Janie took two rapid-fire jabs to the ribs, then a clock under her chin; Evie did a spin, trying to throw in an elbow, but Janie avoided it. A strong kick threw Evie back, stumbling and gasping -- a hit to the solar plexus? That could end the fight in seconds -- and another round of swings traded between them.

Then Janie managed to get behind Evelyn, wrapping her arms around the smaller woman’s neck. Disappointment hit Connor as he recognized what was happening, having been rooting for his partner despite the odds, but there was no way she could win now.

She gasped around the pressure cutting off her air, hands yanking at Janie’s much stronger arms. Though she thrashed and wriggled, even reaching back to smack at Janie’s face, she couldn’t dislodge the former Marine.

“I’m pinching your carotid artery,” Janie was saying. “You’ll be out in under thirty. Tap out. Tap out, or pass out.”

Evelyn clearly wasn’t going to give in, Connor saw, wincing and baring her bloodstained teeth. Every other second she tried and failed to suck in a breath, and it wrenched something in him to see her struggling so.

“Just tap out,” he advised. It wasn’t worth falling unconscious.

But she kept fighting, not even seeming to hear him; maybe the rushing in her ears was blocking the sound? Regardless, she soon dropped to one knee, then down further to her hands. Janie went with her, refusing to let go until the Sergeant tapped out.

Slowly, fighting every second, Evelyn went limp, eyes drooping. And, finally, Janie loosened her grip, lowering Forbes down to the floor. Then, rising, she traded high-fives with Tobias and Cameron, and Q turned to mark another tally on Janie’s side of the board.

In a blink, with all their backs turned, Evie opened her eyes and pushed herself up. Being the only one still watching, Connor felt a rush of excitement; had she just played dead? He couldn’t withhold a grin, admiration replacing his former disappointment.

Evelyn crept one step closer, then leapt, seizing Janie and putting her in the same headlock she’d just been subjected to. Janie managed a yelp of surprise before her throat was pinched, cutting off her airflow.

The males all recoiled from the sound, refocused, and promptly started cheering and hollering. Now on the receiving end, Janie thrashed, trying to throw Evelyn off her -- but it was clear the smaller female had something to prove and wasn’t going to let go.

Janie even threw herself back, crushing Evelyn between her and the stone floor. Evie exhaled in a harsh yell yet managed to keep her grip, even using her new freedom to secure her legs around Janie’s waist.

“Tap out,” Evie directed between heavy pants. “Tap out or pass out.”

Both Cameron and Tobias were losing it, laughing and gesturing the women and cheering on Evelyn. Connor felt much the same, though he was content to smile, pleased.

Janie attempted to pry Evie’s arms off her for a few moments longer but only succeeded in adding a few bruises to the other woman. And, finally, she tapped Evie’s arm, yielding.

The moment Forbes let her go, Janie rolled off her, then onto her back, gasping deeply to refill her lungs. They were both panting harshly, even wheezing from the damage they’d both suffered to their tracheae, but it was clear on their faces that neither looked _ unhappy. _

Then, thrusting both arms in the air, Evelyn called, “Three!”

The building all but shook as each human collectively burst out laughing.

Even Janie participated, though she kept coughing in between fits, and she managed between chortles, “Out of thirty!”

“I’m catchin’ up!” Evie returned, sounding proud of herself.

Janie chuckled at that, then pushed herself up with a groan. Clambering to her feet, she gave Evie’s foot an absent kick, chiding, “Now here’s the question for you: is winning still winning if you’re still the one on the ground?”

Evelyn grunted.

Snorting, Janie gave a few twists, stretching her limbs, and stepped away. At the same time, Connor saw Tobias hold out his hand towards Reynold; the other man sighed and counted out some 20s, then handed them over. A bet?

Q had already added another tally to Evelyn’s side, and now Cameron approached her -- with a bucket? Connor barely had time to identify what was in it (water) before he chucked the contents at the still-prone woman.

Evelyn saw it coming a split second before the contents washed over her, tensing preemptively. Then, sitting up with difficulty, she shook out her hair and blew the excess from her lips.

Connor’s first thought was that the water was some kind of chastisement, but her mildly amused expression suggested otherwise; a tradition, maybe?

Tobias was there a second later, saying, “Who had your back, baby? Who believed in you, who had faith?”

She glanced up, her amusement fading. “You bet on me, didn’t you?” she demanded.

“’Course I did -- I had _ faith,” _ he insisted, offering her his hand.

She stared at him for another second, then smiled. “You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?” she asked.

He shrugged; apparently satisfied by that, she reached up and took his hand. Strong male that he was, he barely had to tug to get her back on her feet.

She clearly regretted being off the ground, though, wincing and pivoting in ways that suggested where her strongest aches were. Unsurprisingly, she had to pause to flex and massage her jaw.

Her walk was ginger as she turned Connor’s way and headed for the bench, easing down on the other side of her belongings with a lingering, pained exhale.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.

She blew out a breath, waving her hand indistinctly. “Yeah, peachy -- I got another win, y’know?” Her gaze lifted to the chalkboard, a satisfaction burning in her gaze.

Her words were thicker than normal, suggesting just how badly her jaw had been hurt, but she looked pleased by the events.

He commented, “You impressed me.” Her gaze shifted to him, curious; he went on, “I didn’t think you’d win, but you did. That last tactic was brilliant -- but risky,” he added, a warning to his tone. “It could’ve caused some serious damage.”

She gave a weak shrug. “I know myself -- and J. I know what works and what doesn’t. And sometimes you just gotta take that risk.”

He accepted that.

She shifted then, face pinched in pain, stretching her back and sides. “Righty, I’m gonna wash off,” she informed him, rising. “If I’m not back in fifteen, I’m dead. Write up a good eulogy for me.”

Morbid humor, he noted, equally amused and horrified. The idea of her dying -- even as a joke -- was an uncomfortable one at best.

He replied quietly, “Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

She glanced at him, smiled, and added, “Relax, I’m joking. Just be chill, I’ll be right back.”

He gave her a vague nod in acknowledgement. And once she was gone, disappearing into a side room, he turned his attention back to the others, his profiles on each of them updating.

Though each of the humans had very different profiles at this point, following the spar he gave them all an additional note: _ Friends and supporters of Evelyn Forbes. _

Their open cheering when she jumped on Janie was proof of this, and had him wondering if this group, in particular, were generally just supporter of one another. For all that Q was harsh with his training and the others openly teased each other, Connor was getting the impression they considered themselves a kind of family unit.

He liked that.

* * *

“I’m curious,” Connor began. “How did you end up at that gym, in particular?”

Forbes was behind the wheel again, freshly showered and back in her gym clothes. Her face was swollen and discolored at the left side of her jaw, and her knuckles were bruised despite the padded gloves she’d worn during the fight.

She smirked at his question. “Funny enough, I was witness-shopping,” she answered. “I went there following a lead about a case a couple years ago. T was my lead,” she explained. “He was pretty tight-lipped at first, refusing to talk to a cop and all that, but he warmed up over the next couple of weeks.”

“Weeks?” he echoed, surprised. “Was it that difficult of a case?”

“Kind of yes, kind of no,” she hedged. “It was more that there wasn’t a lot to go on, so we had to keep coming back to the witnesses to piece stuff together. Once we had enough pieces, though, it all fell into place and the case was closed in almost literal minutes.”

He took that in, then checked, “But you came back to the gym afterwards?”

“Correct,” she nodded. “It’s...hard to explain, but I liked the feel of it. Small, but not cramped, and there was loyalty and warmth between the few patrons. It impressed me.”

He gave that a moment of thought before replying, “They all have criminal records.”

“I’m aware.”

“Quincy has two manslaughter convictions.”

“I know,” she laughed, giving him a look that said she thought his concern was amusing.

Offended, he snapped, “And you’re not the least bit worried they could turn on you -- a police officer?”

“No, I’m not,” she confirmed, her humor shifting to irritation. “Jesus, just try trusting me, huh? I’ve been living her a long time and I know the people, especially _ these _ people--”

“Evelyn, if there’s one thing humans are known for above all else,” he interrupted, “it’s unpredictability. Just because you _ think _ you know them--”

“They’re my friends, Connor,” she snapped, “and if you chilled out they could be yours, too.”

“I don’t want friends like those,” he shot back.

The look she gave him was offended, and he realized a second too late that she counted herself as being like “them”. Indirectly, he’d told her that he didn’t want _ her _ for a friend. And, truth be told, he didn’t know why he’d said it. It’d just slipped out.

“I didn’t mean that,” he hurried out.

“Really?” she breathed, annoyed.

“I didn’t,” he insisted. “I was frustrated -- I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just worried about you, being friends with them -- criminals aren’t well-known for being stable.”

She exhaled softly in a way that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Got a story for you, Connor,” she began.

...What?

“Q -- Harold Quincy, convicted of voluntary manslaughter twice,” she said. “You obviously found his records, but did you take a second to look at the why behind the crimes?”

Well...no, he hadn’t. Expecting this to go somewhere, he prompted, “No -- why?”

Nodding slowly to herself, she explained, “Q used to have a family. A husband and three adopted children. But he grew up back when homophobia was at its peak, and though he managed to get married and start raising a family, the cards were always stacked against him.

“Sixteen years ago, when he was 41, his husband didn’t come home from work. He submitted a missing persons report, put up flyers, the whole bit. He watched his kids more closely, went full Mother Hen. And about a year later, his husband was found.

“In pieces,” she hinted with a sad tone. “It opened a murder case -- not in my precinct,” she added, “but it ended up being an officer who committed the murder. A homophobe, though he excused the crime as self-defense.”

Subdued, Connor said, “Cutting someone into pieces isn’t self-defense.”

“Exactly,” she agreed softly. “It was swept under the rug. Q didn’t agree with that, and he ended up working with Internal Affairs to get a confession out of the officer. Things went sideways, and Q ended up killing him -- in self-defense,” she stressed. “But when it went to court, a jury found him guilty of voluntary manslaughter.”

_ Shit. _ That was...horrible. “And,” he ventured, “his children?”

“Went back into the system,” she explained. “He got out again on good behavior five years later, found his kids, and discovered his younger daughter had been getting sexually abused by her foster parents. He snapped, killed the man and ended up crippling the woman.”

_ Jesus. _ Just one blow after another for Q, wasn’t it?

“He went right back into prison for that. His two daughters cut contact with him, but T stuck by him.” Giving him a little smile, she explained, “Tobias is his son, and right now he’s the only family Q has left. All of his blood ties cut him off for the first manslaughter, then denounced him completely for the second. Nowadays his gym _ is _ his family.”

Connor took that in, feeling sympathy for the man. Lost his husband and both daughters and only got prison time for the trouble.

Quiet, she went on, “Sometimes the law doesn’t work the way we need it to. Sometimes the law just outright fails. And the system, right now, is designed to create criminals, then refuses to let them recover from their crimes. That’s why I forgive,” she murmured, “and why I’m not afraid of convicts. They all have their stories, Connor -- and it’s important to listen to those stories.”

He accepted that. “And the others?”

“Not my stories to tell,” she answered. “I only told you Q’s because he’s okay with that. He isn’t ashamed of what he’s done, because everything he did was for those he loved.”

He could understand that. “I feel bad for him,” he confessed.

“You should, that’s the right way to feel,” she agreed. “But don’t pity him, he hates that. Be compassionate with him, remember that he’s suffered worse than most people can even comprehend, but don’t pity him. He’s stronger for the trials he’s endured, and if anything, you should applaud that.”

Somehow, that pulled a smile out of Connor, starting to draw lines between Q and Hank. At first he’d thought Hank was, at best, unhinged and intentionally difficult, but now it was looking like he was just...normal, given the times.

Maybe Hank was more common than not.

And, as a new thought asserted itself, Connor asked, “Evelyn? What about you -- have you ever killed anyone?” Connor had, and after all this he wasn’t sure how he felt about it anymore.

Each one had felt necessary at the time, barely a blip on his awareness, but now they were starting to gain weight, and he couldn’t put into words how that was making him feel.

Hesitant, she answered, “I have. I’ve killed two people.”

“Did they deserve it?” he ventured cautiously. And, honestly, he was surprised that the number was only ‘two’ -- with the high death rates by U.S. officers he’d expected her to have killed several people. But maybe that was another reason why she was a Sergeant: her restraint and compassion.

She was quiet for a long moment, seemingly torn, before answering, “I’m not sure anyone really deserves it, but at the time I would’ve said ‘yes’ in a heartbeat.” 

At that, he was almost startled; had she gone through what he was feeling, now? “What changed?” he couldn’t help asking.

Shaking her head, she said, “Me. I did.”

That was...scary to contemplate. If she felt regret for the lives she’d taken as a result of her changing, then it followed that Connor feeling regret meant..._ he _ was changing, too. And he didn’t think he liked that.


	11. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're familiar with the Daredevil TV show on Netflix, I based Evelyn's apartment on Matt's.

**Rating:** PG-13 (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

The lock to [ **Evelyn’s apartment** ](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1NtM1UKhVHKin4e1qE-3mH3IKwuNPskB5) was a palm-print scan, Connor learned. A press and a second was all it took to open the door, the metal sliding into the frame to make way. And directly on the other side was a hall and a wall, he saw. 

Evelyn walked in first, and he followed, going no further than just inside the doorway until invited. The first thing he saw? A dead end to the right, while the wall in front of him extended a few feet to the left. A partition was set up just beyond where the hallway wall ended, cutting off his line of sight, but from what he’d seen so far he assumed the apartment was fully rectangular. 

“Coat, shoes,” Evelyn directed with gestures at a coat rack and shoe compartment. She was already pulling her jacket off, so Connor did the same, hanging up his coat once he had the leeway. Then off came her shoes, pulling down the zippers on the inside of each, before she stuffed them into one of the small boxes. 

He found four pairs of shoes already there, five with her current pair added, with three spots open; he added his after removing them. 

Then she strode into the apartment proper, calling out loud, “Alexa -- register new user.” 

A chime indicated her order had been received, and Connor paused to scan the environment. He knew what Alexa was -- who didn’t, really? -- and found the AI seemed to be wired into the building itself. He counted four speakers in the walls, the one nearest Evelyn being the one that had chimed at her command. 

Then, to Connor, she said, “State your name.” 

“Connor,” he said. 

Another chime, then a female voice came through, “User registered: Connor.” 

To him, Evelyn said, “She’ll respond to you, now. She can only handle basic queries, though, so I don’t imagine you’ll really need her. The point is more that she’ll let you in,” she explained, gesturing the front door. 

Curious, he asked, “You had an Alexa installed?” 

“She came with the apartment, actually,” Evelyn corrected. “Mostly she just monitors the door and windows, basically an advanced security system.” 

Got it. 

“That’ll be all, Alexa,” she commanded then and another chime indicated that the program had shut down. 

“Do you use Alexa much?” he asked, curious. 

“Not really, but she’s helpful with things like alerts and making sure I don’t burn my dinner every night,” Evelyn said dryly. “Anyway, there’s not much to see, just two rooms, really…” 

She gave a miniature tour then, making gestures as she named places and objects, and he joined her to see them. 

“Kitchen, couch, work area, bedroom,” she was saying. 

On the opposite side of the hallway wall was the kitchen, an island counter dividing it from the living room along with two mis-matched stools. The partition (a simple wicker design six-and-a-half feet wide cut in five alternating sections) was placed between the hall and the living area. There was a television against the wall and a couch across from it, just off from the center of the room, and neither of the objects were easily visible from the door. 

Near the kitchen island was a pair of filing cabinets four drawers high of differing designs, suggesting they were purchased at different times. Beside them was a huge window (five feet wide, three feet high, he deduced) with a desk and chair perpendicular to the window, situated against the bedroom wall. That wall bridged the living area with the work area, a large rectangular archway opening up into the bedroom in the center with a pair of partitions on a rack acting as the doors on the outside. 

“Bathroom is through the bedroom to the right,” she finished the tour. “Though I don’t suppose you’ll need to use it too often.” 

“I shower regularly,” he told her. “I do get dirty with time, I just don’t acquire sweat and dead skin the way humans do.” That, and the illusion of skin powered by his thirium made it impossible to actually see the grime he gained with time. He might look immaculate but he rarely was. 

She looked dumbfounded for a second, then said, “I don’t know why that never occurred to me until now, but it didn’t.” 

He shrugged. “Humans are stupid,” he reminded her. 

“Hah!” she retorted. Then, turning her attention to the computer, she directed, “I have two separate accounts: home and work. You’re free to use the work account or make your own, but the home account is private. Off-limits,” she hinted. 

“Is that where you keep all your deep, dark secrets?” he teased. 

“Hardly. But you don’t need secrets to expect respect,” she pointed out. 

Noted. “Got it,” he assured her. “In that case, I believe I’ll make a new account for myself. No peeking,” he told her. 

“Darn, got me with my own logic,” she complained dryly. Stepping back, she said, “I’m gonna get out of these clothes. Don’t get into any trouble -- no downloading viruses onto my computer.” 

“I would _ never,” _ he retorted, faking offense. 

She chuckled, then strode into her bedroom, sliding the partitions closed. He could hear it as she changed, able to follow what she was doing, but he was more focused on the computer. Interfacing with it, he sat down and granted himself administrator permissions, made an account for himself, then revoked those permissions -- out of respect, as Evelyn had said. 

If necessary he could just hack it again, so it was no loss for him, really. 

He was still setting up the look and feel of the account (background images, interface, colors, special coding and such) when Evelyn emerged. She’d changed from her workout clothing to a button-up shirt and slacks, informing him that she didn’t just dress up for work; this was her style. 

“Everything set up already?” she checked. 

“Mostly,” he replied. “Just personalizing my account now.” 

She smirked. “As we speak?” she challenged. 

“Of course,” he answered, his tone slightly patronizing on purpose. 

As expected, she chuckled. “Figured. No rush,” she added, walking past him towards the kitchen and giving him a pat on the shoulder as she went. 

He absently watched her while he continued optimizing his account, discovering her home routine. The first thing he learned? She didn’t bother with glasses. She pulled a carton of orange juice out of the fridge, twisted off the cap, and took several swigs before replacing it. Not the best manners, but he supposed he could forgive that. She was living alone, after all -- or at least, had been until now, and even with him here she still lived without _ humans. _

She hadn’t been ever since her separation. 

“Do you miss him?” he found himself asking. 

She paused, giving him a look that was half curious, half cautious. 

“Richard,” he clarified. 

She looked away, answering quietly, “Constantly.” 

Probably best not to bring him up again, Connor decided. 

“Alright, I’m heading out,” she said then, brushing her loose hair back and tying it in place with a band she’d had around her wrist. “You coming?” 

“Not this time,” he answered. “I’d like to get more familiar with your residence.” 

“Cool beans.” 

He smirked, knowing she was using that phrase intentionally now just to be funny. 

“Alright, see you,” she commented as she headed towards the door. “Typical rules apply: no burning down the house or inviting strangers in. And if you find any spiders or mice, relocate them outside.” 

He was surprised by that last directive, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been. Most humans were fine with killing pests outright, but Evelyn wasn’t, apparently. Surprising though it might be, it definitely fit with the profile he was building of her. 

She protected androids, beings most humans still didn’t view as “alive”. It followed, then, that she’d protect wildlife as well. She was proving to be more compassionate than he’d expected, even for an officer of the law. 

He liked that. 

“Noted,” he answered absently as she vanished from sight. A moment later he heard the door slide open and closed, and when his personalization of his computer account was done, he went exploring. And while he found a few more surprising details, most of what he encountered fit with what he already knew of her. 

Her kitchen cabinets were mostly bare, proving that she’d barely been living here at all and didn’t plan on staying; she hadn’t bought any kitchenware sets to stock the cabinets and drawers. She had just enough for herself, no extras. 

Curious about what food she had stocked, he checked that, too...and couldn’t decide if he was amused or not. She had plenty of groceries, and it seemed split in half in terms of health: she had vegetables in the refrigerator and cans of the stuff, even frozen bags, on top of typical groceries like milk, eggs and bread. But she also had an _ enormous _amount of junk food, particularly of the frozen variety. 

Ice cream sandwiches, snack cakes she’d put in the freezer, two jars of marshmallow creme, popsicles in Jolly Rancher flavors, a _ stack _of chocolate bars and two 8oz bags of Reese’s Pieces in a drawer in the fridge, three kinds of ice cream syrup, an opened bag of chocolate mint chips… 

Either she had a massive sweet tooth or someone went a little crazy with the housewarming gifts. Yet, oddly, for all that he found junk food...he didn’t find any similar drinks. Aside from a jug of milk, the orange juice he already knew she had, and a six pack of beer bottles, she only had a water purifier container. No sugary beverages to be seen. 

Finding that curious, he made a note of it then moved on. 

Her bedroom was small and cramped, her full size bed barely able to fit against the wall to the left between a single nightstand and the closet protruding inwards from the wall opposite the doorway. Her bed was right up against the dual sliding doors; it must be a struggle to get anything in or out of it. Beside the closet was a short dresser, so tight up against her bed she probably couldn’t open the left-side drawers. 

To the right, as she’d directed, was the bathroom. There was a toilet, sink and cabinet combo with a trash bin under the overhanging shelf of the cabinet, mirror, and medicine cabinet, with a tight doorway leading to the bath/shower combo. It was even more cramped in here than the bedroom, the bathtub diagonally placed and still taking up over half the total room. 

This apartment was clearly designed for a single person and showed it. It was a good thing he had no possessions, then; he wouldn’t have been able to put them anywhere. 

Well, no, that wasn’t strictly true. If he really wanted to he could organize everything in here better than she had done and open up the space much better, especially if he opted to stow things on shelves -- which she didn’t have but he knew she could afford to purchase. He doubted she’d be keen on that, though. 

Since his point was to continue building his profile on Evelyn he decided to be a bit more nosy, getting into her personal spaces. The closet, he found, contained clothes in a very similar style to what he’d seen her wearing so far. Several shirts and pairs of pants were hung up, but he only found two dresses and they were both frilly at the waist. 

Cute. 

What was more interesting, though, were the garments and shoes shoved off to the side, underneath the rack. Everything was folded neatly, but it was all sexy, alluring, even a bit whorish. Costumes, he wondered? She _ was _an attractive woman; if she was assigned undercover work, it wouldn’t be hard for her to charm her way to where she needed to be. 

The fact that they were folded yet clearly jammed into a corner told him she didn’t like doing such things, though. 

There were a pair of large, closed boxes in here as well, up on the shelf. He left those be, figuring they were more personal than simple clothing. She could probably forgive him sticking his nose in her closet but he didn’t imagine her being nearly as forgiving for digging into her boxes. He moved on to her dresser then, curious what her more casual style was like. 

In a word: comfortable, he found. T-shirts, blouses, tank tops, and even a few modern tunics in a variety of colors filled one drawer, with pants, shorts and skirts in various cuts, fabrics and colors in another. She didn’t seem to adhere to a specific style, he thought, but rather simply bought whatever caught her eye. That, or she was given a great deal of clothing as gifts. 

He left her top drawer alone, easily guessing what was in it and uninterested in such articles, and checked the last thing he hadn’t yet: her filing cabinets. He guessed they were work-related, full of profiles, cases, evidence records and the like, and thus readily available to him as her partner. 

He was not prepared for what he found. 

The first drawer he checked, the top one, of the left-side cabinet was empty. The one just below gave off a visible blue glow the moment it cracked open, and inside he found...LEDs. Specifically android LEDs. 

His confusion was so strong he was almost forced to reboot. What the hell was this? Well, he reasoned, the drawers weren’t locked, so they probably weren’t sensitive, and she’d left him alone in her apartment with no rules regarding the filing cabinets, so they weren’t a secret, either. 

Then why did she have them? 

They were in evidence baggies, and checking them revealed that each bag was marked with a location and date and most contained multiple LEDs. Searching for the locations on the bags helped soothe his confusion a bit: they were all on or near crossroads, with few at a more specific place. 

Had Forbes been picking them up off the ground? If so -- then why? What was the point? Yet, for all that this was a baffling discovery, he couldn’t suppress a feeling of gratitude; he could scan each and every one of these to build up a compendium of the androids in L.A. More information was always a good thing, so he was quick to gather all he could, making this discovery a useful one. 

The bags were organized by date, so he went through them methodically and replaced them where they were, scanning each LED in each baggie. By the time he was done with the drawer he had 174 androids identified. 

He was definitely going to talk to Evelyn about this when she got back, but until then he had plenty else to do--

The next drawer down also contained LEDs. 

The most surprising part was the fact that he felt surprised. The Revolution occurred almost two months ago, now, and L.A. had one of the highest android percentages in the U.S. If they were anything like Detroit’s androids, the first thing they would’ve done is remove their LEDs -- even Connor had done so, though in his case he’d opted to disable it rather than tear it out. 

He might just need it at some point, so it was sensible to have it available for such an event. 

It made sense, then, that android LEDs would’ve been everywhere, discarded and left on the streets. Fragile though they were, the devices could potentially injure unprotected flesh or puncture car tires; his best guess was that was why Evelyn had started picking them up. Why she’d go this far, however, was another question entirely. 

Why collect them? 

Regardless, he took the opportunity and continued scanning. These LEDs were in larger numbers per bag, he found, fitting with the dates progressing all the way back to December 14th. Connor scanned each one and was given another 302 serial IDs. 

Recognizing a pattern, he closed that drawer and opened the bottom one -- yep, more LEDs. These ones were more haphazard, though, and the dates and locations on the baggies were more vague, some even including question marks. From this, he assumed that Evelyn had begun picking up the LEDs just to get them off the roads, then decided later to categorize them. Retroactively, however, her memory wasn’t good enough to pinpoint the earliest ones. 

There were 428 LEDs in this drawer, bringing his total up to 904. Over nine hundred androids identified thanks to Forbes apparently being a pack-rat. 

He couldn’t decide if he was grateful for her fastidiousness or concerned for her mental health…

The other filing cabinet, as he’d initially expected, contained work-related files. Each was ongoing, he found, and venturing into all possible categories -- most of them were outside the realm of homicide. Interesting...

* * *

When Forbes returned she was in good spirits, though the bruise on her face had worsened over the day, turning an ugly violet with red and yellow blotches covering almost the whole of her jaw on her left side. It hadn’t swollen much, luckily, but it looked horrendous and agonizing.

Connor was waiting for her by then, a series of questions in his mind that he intended to get answered. The sight of her wound gave him hesitations, though, worrying over whether or not speaking would be painful for her. He supposed he should test that first, then.

At some point she’d tied up her hair in a bun, but otherwise she looked the same as when she’d left. 

“Welcome back,” he greeted from the computer chair. She looked startled for an instant, amusing him; had she forgotten about him?

Laughing to herself, she replied, “Thanks. I honestly forgot you were here.” And, he noted, she wasn’t wincing with each word, thankfully -- though she _ did _ seem to be more cautious about the movement of her jaw. She wasn’t quite as expressive as usual and wasn’t moving her mouth as much when she spoke.

He’d guessed as much. But he retorted, “I’m wounded.” 

She snorted. “My apologies,” she returned, her tone just a teensy bit mocking.

Allowing that without complaint, he ventured, “I have a few questions for you.” 

“Personal ones?” she teased, heading to the kitchen. 

“Actually, yes,” he answered, following her. He relocated to a stool, sat down, and watched her as he began, learning a bit more about her routine in the process. “First question: how often do you get into fights with J?” 

It was a concerning question because of just how much damage she’d sustained from the scuffle. If it happened too frequently, the chances of her receiving permanent injuries increased. 

“Once every other month,” she answered absently, starting to assemble her dinner. “First Saturday, technically, but this year Saturday was New Year’s day, so we postponed it.”

Understood. “Do you always end up this...rough, afterwards?” he checked.

“Not usually, no,” she offered with a shrug. “Today we were both a little extra brutal, is all.”

Concerned, he asked, “Why? What do you get out of it?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, but while she _ did _ look mildly amused, she wasn’t smirking -- she couldn’t, he thought. “The sparring, you mean?”

“The brutality,” he corrected. “I understand the need for sparring -- it keeps your body strong and your reflexes sharp. What I don’t understand is why you decided to be...harsher this time.”

Her gaze dropped as she thought on that; then, turning her face away again, she ventured, “I guess we were both just trying to show off a little.”

_ Why? _ he wondered. _ What was different about today? _

Two possibilities came to mind: the first being that it was the new year. It made sense that, in a way, their score was wiped clean, and so the victor of the battle would be a sort of unspoken overall superior for the remainder of the year.

The second was the fact that _ he _ had been there to witness it. And something about that theory warmed him, in a way -- the theory that Forbes had chosen to show off because of him being present. He wouldn’t go so far as to believe it, especially for someone he knew so little, but the idea was pleasing in its own way.

Accepting her words, he changed subjects, deciding to be blunt from here on out.

“Why do you have 904 android LEDs in your filing cabinet?”

At that, she paused, straightening up. Pivoting to see him again, she checked, “Did you just say 904?” He nodded; she continued, “There’s 904, now?”

A little impatient, he pressed, “Yes -- but why do you have them?”

Shrugging, she offered, “They were becoming a problem. For a while they were everywhere, on the streets and clogging up the gutters. Considering most of the waste service employees had been androids, themselves, cleaning them up was a really slow process. So I just started picking them up, throwing them away -- and later, bringing them back here.”

“Why?” he asked again.

“Dunno, really. Figured I’d do something with them, y’know, see if I could make something beautiful out of them. But I’m not really a crafty person so I’m kind of...stuck,” she confessed.

“And why did you label them, as well? If you only meant to build something out of them--”

“Because I’m weird, okay?” she interrupted. “I’m a bizarre person with bizarre habits and I don’t know why I do everything I do.”

Her tone was _ just _ aggressive enough that it gave him pause. Tentative, he continued, “And that distresses you.”

She made a sound like an annoyed sigh, then replied, “Wouldn’t it distress you?”

He supposed it would -- now that he had the clarity to recognize his own actions. “I guess so,” he answered. Then, shifting the subject a bit, he went on, “I am curious about something else -- why do you think the LEDs were left everywhere, instead of disposed of?”

She shrugged. “Androids making statements, I guess,” she said absently, finishing up her meal assembly. (Meat, cheese, lettuce, tomato, avocado, and mayonnaise, he saw.) She added a handful of barbecue chips as she continued, “There were actually bunch thrown into CyberLife stores. I saw one guy sweeping them out of the store one day.”

That caught Connor’s attention _ very _ sharply. That was the equivalent of slaves throwing their binds or chains back at their owners, and he liked the visual it painted. The resentment there was...almost comforting, in a way. His people were clearly feeling _ everything, _ and it made him hopeful for the future.

The more they felt -- the more alive they were -- the more demanding they became, forcing humans to accept them as a whole.

And that thought led to another, and he began pondering on a new thought: the androids undoubtedly still in shipping containers and warehouses. Just because they’d been removed from displays didn’t mean they’d been activated or been freed, just that they’d been _ moved. _

At once, he felt a pressing need to rescue them.

Assembling a plan in his mind, he absently watched Forbes as she moved to the couch and worked on her meal. She flipped to the news and absorbed it as she ate, and he decided to join her. He’d never watched the news before and he was curious what was happening in the world right now.

But he never stopped thinking about his plan.

According to the news, almost every trade, job, and service had been suspended across the U.S. The rest of the world was better off, having been less than half as dependent on androids, but it was still dangerously close to a standstill the world over.

Another Congress hearing had occurred yesterday evening, and they were recounting it now. Markus hadn’t been present to this one, he learned, but Josh and Simon had, along with several other androids -- both as witnesses and as protection. Another RK800 had been there, too, alongside Josh and Simon.

Connor recognized him as Wesley, one of the two RK800s officially assigned as Markus’ personal protection.

Forbes clearly noticed and, gesturing the TV, glanced at him, confused.

“I’m not the only RK800,” he explained.

“Ah,” she responded, then returned to the report.

They were debating property laws, Connor learned. Roughly half of Congress was arguing against it, saying that property can’t own property, with the other half pointing out that according to the current law, androids weren’t property. The question, then, became what they were -- not human, obviously, but neither objects.

How to fit them into the law was clearly still an ongoing discussion.

Josh -- the better negotiator of the two -- presented the case on behalf of androids very understandably: that they needed places to stay, and if they’re allowed both the right to work and the right to ownership, they’ll be helping the economy as a whole.

If there’s one thing humans always understood, Connor thought, it was money. As soon as that was put into play, he could visibly see minds changing amongst the more prejudiced members of Congress.

The news report concluded a moment later with the fact that “ground had been made” and more meetings were scheduled for the future. 

“One step forward...” Forbes murmured.

He couldn’t help giving her a scan at that comment, curious and concerned. And, aside from that irritating alert flickering _ again, _ he concluded that she was worried but tentatively hopeful.

More and more he was feeling stupid for ever doubting her. He supposed his caution could be excused, though, given the situation his people were in right now. He just felt ridiculous for receiving so much positivity from her and interpreting it as chicanery.

She turned off the TV then, leaning back into the couch, her expression conflicted.

Partly as a distraction and partly because he wanted to implement the plan he’d been constructing this whole time, he asked, “What do you think happened to the androids removed from their displays?”

“Huh? Oh,” she responded, his words pulling her from some deep thought. “Uh, I’d guess they were either returned to the production plants where they came from or stored somewhere. Big stores like that usually have basements, so I’d assume they were just moved downstairs.”

He hoped as much, but CyberLife store blueprints weren’t exactly available on the internet. He couldn’t access them without being physically at the store, and it hadn’t occurred to him when he’d been at one yesterday.

Then, knowing this was risky as Evelyn was an officer of the law but banking on her compassion swaying her decisions, he ventured, “What if I wanted to free them, but I needed help to do so?”

She was quiet for a moment, turning to stare at him, dumbfounded. “Free them...how? Financially, I can’t just buy dozens, if not hundreds--”

“I’m not talking about buying them,” he explained carefully, “I’m talking about rescuing them.”

Her expression said ‘that’s what I was afraid you were going to say’. “What do I think?” she checked. “I think...you just informed an _ officer _ that you’re planning on breaking the law.”

“For the greater good,” he countered.

“Regardless, you’re talking about breaking and entering and theft of likely hundreds of thousands of dollars--”

“It’s not theft -- we’re people, now, remember?” he interrupted.

She inclined her head, conflicted. “Yeah, that’s -- but -- are _ they?” _

Offended, he demanded, “What do you mean, ‘are they’? They’re as much a person as I am.”

“Are they, though?” she pressed. “Is an android that hasn’t even been activated still alive?”

“Of course they are, why wouldn’t they be?” he insisted, though a thread of doubt had planted itself. She made a good point...

“I don’t know -- I have no capacity to answer that question, that’s why I’m asking _ you,” _ she explained. “You’re talking about rescuing them, but can you really rescue empty shells?”

His offense _ flared _ in response to that. “They’re not empty shells, they’re fully completed _ people!” _

“In the same way that a fetus is a human?” she countered.

That was...an excellent point, he admitted with difficulty. When he failed to answer that, confronted with this analogy, she went on.

“Okay, let’s -- let’s try it another way,” she was saying. Turning fully to face him, a leg folded under her, she began gesturing with her hands as she said, “So, this -- this is me.” She gestured herself. “Like, if I lose a hand, that’s it -- I’m not getting it back. I’d want it back, it’s a piece of me, but no matter what, whether I get a prosthetic or whatever, my hand will never be the same. I’ll always feel that I lost it even if it’s replaced.

“But for you,” she said, gesturing him, “losing a hand is temporary. You can get a replacement and it’ll be as good, if not better than, your current ones. So the question becomes this: is _ this _ you, or just _ that?” _ She waved at his form then his head in turn.

And Connor had trouble answering that. For most androids -- for all except him and his model -- their body was _ them. _ He was the odd one out, able to back up his memory and upload it to another model (or, at least, he _ used _ to be able to do that).

“All your _ parts _ can be removed, replaced, swapped, the whole bit,” she continued. “You could disassemble any other android, break them down into pieces, take anything you wanted from them, and replace what you took with whatever else fit, and it still wouldn’t count as _ you _ having a piece of _ them. _ They wouldn’t become a Frankenstein monster of other androids’ parts. It’d just be -- these are your new parts, those are theirs.” 

The truth of that hit him _ hard. _ From an existential point of view, it almost caused an immediate crisis, and it stressed how very different androids and humans were. Humans -- like Evelyn -- were cemented into their bodies and there was no changing that. 

He could change any way he wished. Before he’d left Detroit, many androids had begun sculpting new, unique faces and bodies for themselves. They’d begun making themselves look the way they wanted in a way humans couldn’t match. 

“So are those deactivated androids real, individual people, or just suits you can don?” Evelyn pressed.

He was at a loss for words for a moment, his mind having difficulty reconciling this perspective with what he knew; then, recalling exactly how androids were assembled, he concluded, “They’re alive. They’re individuals. When androids are assembled,” he told her, “they undergo testing immediately. They’re questioned, given tasks, assessed for mental stability and errors, and if they pass, get deactivated and shipped out. But they all remember everything -- they were deactivated for shipping, but the rest of the time they’re active. They’re alive,” he insisted.

Absorbing that, she leaned back in her seat, thoughtful.

“They might not have names yet,” he insisted, “and might not be awake and aware, but they’re very much alive.”

She seemed to take that in, expression clouding. Then, shaking her head, she began with a dry laugh, “Can’t believe I’m even considering this, but here I am, talking about breaking into private property -- with another officer, no less,” she added towards him.

“For the greater good,” he reminded her.

She nodded, agreeing, “For the greater good. Okay, you win. What do you need?”

A wave of absolute joy hit him. This was happening -- he was continuing his work in freeing his people, and now with his new _ human _ partner. A smile bloomed across his face and despite his self-control he just couldn’t wipe it off.

“Thank you,” he murmured, emotional.

She smiled back. “Whatever you need, partner, I got you.”

He might just love this woman. 


	12. Hurt...I'm Hurt

**Rating:** PG-13 (swearing, violence)

* * *

* * *

* * *

Evelyn and Connor spent a good portion of the night talking about what to do regarding the androids still in cellars and warehouses, ultimately deciding to take things slow and be cautious. One wrong step and the both of them could end up fired -- or worse. They’d have to proceed carefully.

Reconnaissance was step one: learning exactly where those androids were and how to reach them. They weren’t in any danger so patience was paramount. The plan, for the moment, was to eventually return to one or more CyberLife stores, Connor would see if he could wirelessly get the blueprints for the building, and Evelyn would try to get a feel for how many androids were actually there -- if any.

And in the meantime they had a very intriguing murder to solve.

But first: the gym. Evelyn was adamant that she keep to her routine, and she spent both Saturdays and Sundays at Brass Balls.

Connor opted not to go with her, deciding to start tracking down some leads solo. She helped him with that a bit, giving him information he didn’t have and the like. She warned him, however, that he didn’t have his shield yet, and that -- plus being an android -- meant people were going to be unlikely to cooperate with him, so he shouldn’t push for anything until she was there with him. 

He pointed out that she could just come along; she argued that even the most devoted of detectives need days off. There was a reason she didn’t work weekends. 

Then they parted ways. Evelyn headed out to her gym -- after giving him some money in case he needed it for anything -- and Connor hit the streets. He had a list of names, dates and the like and was eager to start correlating things. His first stop was Montgomery’s law firm, Grayson & Hart. 

He tracked down and spoke with several people who’d known Montgomery, both as clients and friends, and others who’d been on the opposite side of the courtroom from him. Saying that he was investigating the murder on behalf of the 22nd got a few doors opened for him, but his lack of a badge closed many more. 

Forbes had been right to warn him, he noted sometime later when he was asked to leave. He relented easy enough, knowing better than to try and push before he had anything backing him. 

But he’d gotten some information, namely from scanning things in eyesight during his few conversations. It looked like an internal investigation was underway as well, with Montgomery’s name popping up on several file folders and email correspondence he’d managed to glimpse. 

Noted. 

On his way out, a younger man caught up to him, calling, “Wait -- you, android!” 

Connor paused, looking over his shoulder. A quick scan identified the male coming towards him: Ton Hoang, Vietnamese, born May 12th, 2019, 5′3″, 122lbs. He was an intern at the firm -- no criminal record, though that wasn’t a surprise. He was only 19. 

“Yes?” Connor prompted. 

A little hesitant, Ton said quietly, “Can we talk somewhere quiet?” 

This was almost funny, in its way, he mused. Evelyn had run out of leads in a day. Connor was finding them left and right. 

“Sure,” he answered. He absently searched for locations nearby that were isolated and quiet, picked one, and suggested it: a cafe with outdoor seating. 

Ton agreed, and they headed off together. The human was quiet at first, awkward, and clearly worrying over what he was doing. With a scan, Connor confirmed that Ton was stressed and a little scared, but was unlikely to react positively to any attempts to calm him. The best tactic, going forward, was simply to let him talk at his own speed.

Once they were at the cafe and seated outdoors, Ton with a coffee and Connor with a glass of water he wasn’t going to drink (to help put Ton at ease), the human began speaking -- with notable hesitation.

“You’re...investigating Mr. Montgomery’s death, is that right?”

Connor nodded. “I am. On behalf of the 22nd precinct.”

“You work there?” Ton checked, clearly doubtful.

“That’s a complicated situation at present,” Connor offered. “Suffice to say I am working for them and with them. From all viewpoints, Mr. Montgomery seemed like a good man. I’d like to find justice for him.”

Glancing down, Ton agreed, “He _ was _ a good man. At work, he was the nicest guy towards us interns. We’re treated like crap,” he told Connor. “That’s just generally how it goes, but Mr. Montgomery...Elias...he was kind. He didn’t deserve--” He cut himself off, looked away.

Connor understood. Montgomery had died in a graphic, bloody display, far more violent than was necessary. It would undoubtedly be upsetting to those who’d known and cared for him.

Connor urged, “Go on. If you have information we can use to bring the murderer to justice...” He trailed off, letting the promise go unsaid.

Ton nodded, composing himself. Then, leaning in closer and lowering his voice (he didn’t have to; all androids could read lips), he began, “I heard it was...internal. Someone had it in for Elias. He was getting promotion after promotion these last few years, so his higher-ups were starting to get...nervous. Wondering which one would lose their job to him.”

Coworkers. Checking his memory, Connor recognized that none of the coworkers had been identified as a possible suspect. Searching through the file, as well, confirmed that most of the coworkers hadn’t even been brought in for questioning; most had been spoken to at the company building and that was it.

It was a solid lead.

A part of him found it to be shoddy policework, missing this possibility, but he couldn’t hold that against them. There’d been little to go on, and at a time when they were short-staffed and overworked. Humans were fallible, even Forbes, he reminded himself. And, as that thought came to him, he realized just how wise it’d been for her to make the request for an android partner.

More than ever, he was pleased to have accepted the request. They clearly needed him.

He took a moment to identify all the lawyers above Montgomery in rank, getting their names and available work schedules, then replied to Ton, “That’s very helpful. Thank you.”

Looking down again, Ton confessed, “I don’t think....I should’ve told you this...”

Concerned, Connor asked, “Why? Do you feel you’re in danger?”

Ton nodded. “I mean, if they were willing to kill Mr. Montgomery, what’s one intern?”

With a rising sense of protectiveness, Connor answered, “Priceless.” Ton looked surprised; he continued, “If you need protective detail--”

“There’s no protecting me from _ those _ guys,” Ton interrupted, becoming increasingly agitated. Paling more by the second, his breathing quickening, he bit out, “I shou-- I shouldn’t have said all this -- shit, they’re gonna--”

Before Connor could say anything, Ton jumped up from his seat, pivoted, and _ sprinted. _ Running for his life? That was dangerous -- he was likely to run across streets without checking for vehicles. He could get hit. An accident was already likely to occur, with the odds rising for every intersection Ton dashed across. 

Alarmed, Connor chased after him, but Ton was proving to be _ damn _ quick on his feet. Connor wasn’t gaining as fast as he would’ve liked, unable to quite close the gap between them -- which was a problem if a vehicle approached. He wouldn’t be able to knock Ton out of the way.

They crossed four streets in this haphazard manner, worrying Connor worse with each one they passed, he heard a horn blare as Ton darted across another intersection; Connor wasn’t nearly close enough to offer any aid. Tires screeched. A flower delivery van came to a grinding halt -- with Ton making it to the other side, thankfully.

Straight from horror to relief, Connor made to go around the vehicle; two males jumped out of the cab, shaky. But when he made it to the other side, Ton was nowhere in sight. As he glanced around, getting his bearings and trying to determine which way the intern had gone, the driver of the vehicle turned to him, aggravated.

“Hey, you -- what do you think you’re doing?!”

Connor was shoved, snapping him back to attention, and he stumbled back a step. A little shocked, he tried, “A man was running -- I was worried he was going t--”

The man went for another shove; Connor avoided it, stepping back and taking a second to scan the two humans. Rudolph Valentin, age 42, 5′4″, 193lbs; Gabriel Lopez, age 46, 5′9″, 251lbs. Coworkers at Florentine Flowers.

They were advancing on Connor, aggressive. Rudolph snapped, “What’s that? Chasing a human, were you?”

Oh.

_ Shit. _

Connor cut in, alarmed, “No, that’s not what I was--”

“That’s what I heard,” Gabriel interrupted towards Rudolph, ignoring Connor. He threw a swing, clearly trying to hit Connor, though it was obvious the man had no combat training. It was easy to avoid. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that it was happening at all -- and, he realized now, drawing a crowd. Stragglers were approaching, drawn by the commotion, confused and suspicious. He could already see that the wrong conclusions were being reached.

“That isn’t what happened--” Connor tried again, desperate to avoid any further confrontations.

“Now it’s trying to making excuses?” Gabriel checked, a dark amusement to him. At once, Connor’s spirits dropped, hearing the objective pronoun addressed to him -- indirectly.

They were anti-android, he realized too late.

“The wonders of technology, eh?” Gabriel went on, glaring.

That phrase -- turned in that manner -- aggravated Connor worse. A part of him was furious just to hear those particular words spoken in such a hateful manner.

Hank had said those same words when Connor paid for his drink.

Someone nearby called, “What’s going on? Hey!”

Rudolph was quicker than Connor, yelling back, “This fuckin’ android was chasing a guy! We almost hit him, he was so scared!”

Connor’s voice was totally drowned out by the male as he tried to answer. Damn it, that is _ not _ what happened! But, frustrated, he realized no one was going to listen to him. All they saw was an android chasing a human, not the reason why the human was running. And it was distressing, seeing just how quickly he was getting surrounded, no one willing to hear him out.

Shouts sounded from all directions, people cursing. Gabriel and Rudolph tried _ again _ to attack him, and though Connor would’ve liked to just disable them, he knew he couldn’t. He was already the bad guy, here; if he hurt anyone, for any reason...

He avoided the blows, trying to ignore the comments he was hearing (”Fuck it up!” “Kick its ass!” “Teach it a lesson!” “Yeah -- junk that piece of plastic!”) but it all...it all _ hurt. _ He’d just been trying to protect Ton...he’d been trying to help!

A rock caught him in the middle of a dodge, the momentum making it impossible to avoid. It smacked into his temple, rebounded, skittered along the ground. An alert warned him that he was bleeding, his skin damaged. He couldn’t help looking to see who had thrown the rock -- a teenager, female, blonde. She looked as hateful as the others, scowling.

Why did that make this so much worse?

Hurt and afraid and surrounded, Connor took the first opportunity he could work out to get out of here. He sprinted past an opening in the ring of humans around him, shoving his way through them and dashing away from the scene, avoiding a number of additional projectiles as he went. A few humans gave chase, but they had no hope of catching up to him now.

They couldn’t stop him once he got going.

He mapped a route as he went, choosing back alleys and the like to avoid being chased via vehicles and making easy work of obstacles along the way. His destination: Evelyn’s apartment. The humans trying to keep up were swiftly undone by lack of exercise and the same hurdles he’d crossed without difficulty. It sounded like one of them got hurt trying to keep up, and there was a vindictive satisfaction in knowing that.

It took him a long time to get back to the apartment. He only ran for a few minutes, long enough to have completely vanished from their sight, then took a cab the rest of the way for the anonymity it granted. The new problem was that it gave him plenty of time to ruminate and reflect on what had happened.

That was the first time he’d seen humans act like that, the first time he’d been the center of so much anti-android aggression. Worse, it’d been done by civilians, people he couldn’t even fight back against. Fighting against trained soldiers were one thing; they were given orders and obeyed, often programmed to be unemotional about it. That’s what had made it so easy to deal with them, so easy to kill them and feel nothing.

But this was different. These were everyday people, pedestrians, humans who had no reason to attack anyone. They hadn’t been given orders. They weren’t fighting in a war. No, they’d _ chosen _ to gang up like that, chosen to become a mob, chosen to attempt a murder on the streets. And it caused so much turmoil for him, recognizing just how bad things were for his people. He’d heard plenty of stories, but given how young he was, he hadn’t _ seen _ any of it in action.

Sure, he’d been struck a few times, himself, but he’d considered those to be isolated incidents. The human individuals were to blame, not humanity as a whole. But after this...after today...he saw how quickly that could turn. And it was distressing, filling him with anxiety and despair and alarm...and hurt.

Following that, however, was anger and frustration. The only thing identifying him as an android was his jacket, but that’d been enough for the humans. It was incredible in a disbelieving sort of way; he could’ve easily been a human wearing an android coat for fashion or irony’s sake, but they hadn’t considered that. Worse, it had him thinking that if he received aggression like this just because of his attire, then he shouldn’t be wearing it.

Damn it, he’d _ liked _this jacket...!

When he got to the apartment, he immediately began pacing, agitated. Trying to process the afternoon’s events was proving difficult, his emotions constantly distracting him. He wanted to yell, he realized with some surprise; he wanted to scream from the cacophony of feelings inside him. He didn’t see it helping, but he wanted to do it anyway.

His mind kept returning to his jacket. If he hadn’t been wearing it, they never would’ve known. They wouldn’t have guessed he was an android. They would’ve asked what he was doing, not demanded it. And they would’ve listened when he said he was trying to protect someone. They wouldn’t have assumed the worst about him.

In a fit, he yanked off the article and threw it smack at the ground. It wasn’t very satisfying; on the contrary, it felt ridiculous. Blaming his problems on a _ coat. _ How silly was that? It wasn’t the coat’s fault, it was the humans’ and their immediate prejudiced reactions. And if it was this bad for him, he could only imagine how hard it was for the rest of his people -- the ones who didn’t have his advantages, who couldn’t escape from a circle like that.

Still frustrated and without any ideas of how to vent it, he sat in the computer chair, trying to force himself to relax. He leaned back, hands linked behind his head, and stared upwards at the ceiling. Then he started counting, hoping it would help.

He made it twenty-six before he got up again, striding into the bathroom and checking his face. The bleeding had stopped; good. It was superficial enough that his biocomponents had done their job and repaired the damage. But a trail of thirium went all the way down to his collar, staining his shirt. Good thing it dried invisible, he mused, angry.

He washed the thirium off his skin and afterwards found himself just gazing down at the sink, watching the thin swirl of blue go down the drain. Bracing himself on the counter, at a loss, he felt a sudden, pressing need for companionship. He needed to talk to someone.

Evelyn immediately came to mind.

It was about noon. She should be at lunch, he reasoned. And though he worried how she would react to this, he _ needed _to talk. He needed to get this out. It wasn’t going to stop hounding him until he did.

She answered after a few rings, breathless, suggesting she’d still been in her workout.

“Yeah? Hello?” she said, breaths coming in short puffs.

Hearing her actually made him hesitate. Should he really bother her with this? It didn’t involve her--

He suddenly recalled her speaking to Ulrich: _ “...my partner’s business counts as mine, too.” _

Rallying, he said, “Evelyn. It’s me.”

Amused, she replied, “I know it’s you, Connor. What’s up?”

Still hesitating, he answered, “I was...I was investigating Montgomery. I found a lead. The guy who gave me the lead...he was scared. He ran. I was worried he’d get hit by a car, so I ran after him, and--”

Alarmed, she checked, “Is he okay?”

“He wasn’t hit,” he assured her. “He almost was. A van. I lost sight of him, then...I can’t explain what happened. A bunch of humans surrounded me.” And as he spoke those words, the fear returned, worse than before. Talking grew...difficult.

Now audibly concerned, she asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m not hurt -- not injured,” he corrected. “But I’m... I’m hurt. It _ hurt, _ Evelyn.” Just saying that put it into clarity for him, spirits dropping. And, for the first time...he cried. A cacophony of new, distressing emotions filled him, breaking him down from the inside until he couldn’t fight the urge. He covered his mouth to stop the sounds, glancing up; his reflection was hard to view, tears dripping down his cheeks.

Fear and horror and dismay all seeped into him at once and he just couldn’t fight back against that. It was too overwhelming. He couldn’t stop recalling the humans’ faces as they yelled that he should be destroyed -- _ killed. _ They’d wanted him dead. And without so much as a confirmation as to why.

Being prodded, shoved, even punched -- none of that had hurt nearly as much as this did. All the abuse he’d endured in Detroit had just been that: abuse, because the people doing it could, and without repercussion.

What happened in the street today was spawned of actual hatred, a desire to kill -- bloodlust. And he’d been the convenient target.

Evelyn was silent for a second, then said, “I’m so sorry, Connor. Do you need me to come back?”

Feeling pitiful, he confessed, “Yes.”

“Okay,” she said gently. “Are you at the apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Twenty minutes.”

He nodded; then, realizing she couldn’t see that, he replied aloud, “Okay.”

“Just take it easy. I’ll be right there,” she promised.

Almost inaudibly, he said, “Okay. Thank you.”

The line disconnected then, and it was strange, but he suddenly felt so forlorn. He was in an apartment, alone, no active connections, no one else nearby, and it was confining in a way he couldn’t explain. Oppressive. He’d never felt so isolated before.

Twenty minutes was more like an eternity.

* * *

By the time Evelyn came back, Connor had composed himself a great deal. He’d had time to catch his breath, double- and triple-check his biocomponents for damage, sort his thoughts, and chide himself a fool for calling Evelyn back early. He’d been desperate for companionship for a little while, but now he had it back under control.

Yet, he hadn’t called to tell her she didn’t need to come back. He chose not to analyze why.

He was in the computer chair again, eyes closed, a hand on the keyboard connecting him to the servers at the precinct. He’d been running information on Montgomery’s coworkers -- sort of. Memories of today’s assault kept inserting itself into his consciousness, a continuous distraction.

Maybe he really did need to talk through this, then. Either that or delete it from memory, and despite how horrifying it’d been, he was still hesitant to do that. He wasn’t sure it’d be worth the risk of getting corrupted memories.

“Connor?” she called as she entered, stopping only long enough to slip out of her shoes. And, he saw, she had come back without so much as a shower, still grimy from her half-finished workout.

Well, now he felt bad.

Sitting up, he said, “I’m sorry about this -- I shouldn’t have called you back.”

“Don’t give me that,” she chided, striding over to him. He saw her notice the blue stain at his collar, and though he tried to protest, she pulled his chin up to look at it. “What’s this?” she demanded. “You said you weren’t injured.”

“A scrape, it’s fine now,” he evaded, pulling her hands away. He got to his feet, trying to keep her from guessing where the wound had been with his superior height. “I’m just sorry I interrupted your day.”

“You’re more important than a workout, Connor,” she told him, looking him over despite his avoidance tactic. “Will you tell me what happened?”

Hedging, he tried, “It’s not that important.”

“Clearly, it was,” she shot back, her concern turning to irritation. “It sounded like you were crying. What happened out there?”

“I wasn’t -- I didn’t cry,” he lied, embarrassed. “I was distressed, and then I got over it.”

Her face said she doubted that. She reached up, giving his cheek a comforting stroke, and said, “How about we sit down and we can talk about it?”

“It’s over. There’s nothing to discuss,” he insisted, even as a whole new conflict arose inside him from her affectionate touch. She cared about him, he realized, despite their short relationship. And as much as that made him feel better, it also made him feel like a jerk for interrupting her routine.

“You said you were hurt, Connor,” she pointed out, gentle. “And now you keep avoiding my eyes. What’s wrong?”

Shit -- he hadn’t even realized he was doing that. With his ability to see so clearly from his peripheral, he had never lost sight of her, but now he noticed she was right. He kept looking away, looking down -- anywhere but directly at her.

He caved, her invitation too much to resist. Mood dropping further, he confessed, “They didn’t listen to me...they assumed the worst, ganged up on me...if I were any other android, they would’ve killed me -- and they never would’ve known they were wrong.”

Visibly softening, Evelyn said, “Sit with me and tell me everything.”

He found it odd and a little distressing, but he couldn’t deny her request. Maybe he didn’t want to, he reasoned. Maybe he wanted to be heard, to hear her agree with him. Maybe he just wanted to stop being Connor From Detroit for a little while, the hero and icon, and instead just be.

And so, relenting, he sidestepped her, heading for the couch. He took one side, she took the other, and then, looking somewhere at the wall/floor intersection, he began to speak.

He told her everything. The confusion, the alarm, the stun when he realized he was being ignored, the fear -- the hurt. He’d only ever wanted good things for humanity, even during the revolution, even while actively fighting humans. He’d prioritized his own people since going deviant, but he’d never before thought that all humans were inherently bad. He’d never believed they were _ evil. _

He was starting to believe it now.

Evelyn was sorrowful as he spoke, and it grew more intense when his words conjured more tears for him. Arms opening, she invited an embrace, and he took it. He felt like he couldn’t _ not, _ as odd as that seemed.

It was a strange feeling, hugging a human like this, but not in a bad way. After today, he felt so rejected -- so _ hated _ \-- yet talking with her...crying with her...nestled in her arms...it made things a little brighter. He was bigger than her, but right then he felt little -- and it wasn’t distressing at all. If anything, he was soaking up comfort, warmed in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. It was a bizarre sensation. Somehow, it soothed his dismay.

She was lightly petting his hair then, and she said softly, “Those people were in the wrong. That was a hate crime. I’m sorry, Connor. You didn’t deserve that.”

Hearing that, he couldn’t help wondering if it’d have been any different if Evelyn were there. Probably, he admitted; she seemed to be able to read and connect with humans very well. She could’ve defused the situation -- largely because she was human, too. That probably would’ve been enough. _ One _ human defending him would’ve been enough.

But none had. He’d been surrounded by eighteen humans and not a single one had spoken up in his defense.

Statistically, using that singular event as a study group, that made 100% of humans prejudiced.

Opting to stay in the embrace -- it was oddly comforting, being moderately hidden like this -- he returned quietly, “None of them...none of them were willing to hear me out. I really believed humans weren’t...that bad, but today...” How did he put into words just how much that damaged his perceptions, how much it wrecked his sense of compassion?

He’d so badly wanted to believe in humanity, but that event...it showed him the flip-side to humans in clear, bold letters. How could he trust strangers again after that?

And to think, he’d started to feel kind of _ bad _ for killing some of them. Now something cold was settling in him, something that quietly whispered, _ They aren’t worth regretting. _

It was difficult, but he told himself not to think things like that. Hate was what had gotten them into this mess to begin with, and the last thing he wanted was to perpetuate it. Eighteen humans did not a consensus make, he concluded. There were billions more.

One of them was listening to him and comforting him even now.

Evelyn gave a sigh. “I don’t know what to tell you, Connor. People -- humans are herd animals,” she corrected herself. “We instinctively just kind of align. We’re afraid of stepping out of the herd,” she told him. “I’d be willing to bet at least a few of the humans didn’t want...to participate...but they were too afraid to step out. They didn’t want to be the next target.”

He could understand that. Fear was a powerful thing, especially for humans. Still, he replied, “Any one of them could’ve stopped it with a word. They chose not to.”

“Guilt by inaction,” she commented, agreeing. Then, giving him a tighter squeeze, she said, “It won’t happen again.”

He couldn’t help a scoff. “How can you know that?” It was a ridiculous thing to say, a gamble of improbable proportions. Nothing about life was certain, least of all human behavior.

“Because I’m going to be making some arrests today,” she informed him, firm. “And tomorrow, there’ll be a statement.”

At that, he drew back, a little alarmed. “What are you planning?” he demanded. Even after today, he still had _ one _ human he didn’t want getting in trouble or hurt, and depending on her plan, either -- or both -- of those things could occur.

She gave him a smile. “Repercussions. They attacked a protected citizen -- and an officer.” With a cold tone, she hinted, “We all bleed blue.”

That got him to smile. He asked, “May I accompany you?”

“Oh, you’re definitely coming,” she answered. “They need to realize the full scope of what they did.” She paused, then deadpanned, “And I need you to identify them.”

He gave a laugh, and just like that, things felt a little bit brighter than before. 


	13. Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I decided to make Evelyn in Sims 4 to help give people a visual of her. It's a limited system compared to others (Sims 3, for example) but it's sufficient. Check below to see that and other art I've made for this fic so far:  
https://drive.google.com/open?id=1HNRDhd0bDmavBDYuS2B34IC5ixMj8PFZ

**Rating:** PG-13 (swearing, violence)

* * *

* * *

* * *

Evelyn was a very focused and driven individual, Connor was learning.

To an extent, he’d known this; her case history was enough to conclude that she was serious about her job and notably tenacious in her work. He’d seen a bit of it firsthand over the last few days, both in her willingness to travel long distances for a lead and how observant she was. “Professionalism” was stamped into everything she did.

Now he was seeing how that functioned on the edge of the law, the place where officers had to proceed carefully because what they planned to do stood on the line between what was legal and what wasn’t.

Androids -- despite having personhood in the law -- were still yet to be protected _ by _ the law. And this, Connor knew, was intentional; those who opposed android rights within the government were drawing this out as long as they could. They were leaving androids a grey area where they couldn’t be assaulted or murdered due to definitions for as long as possible, allowing humans the freedom to destroy them en masse.

This had been brought into painful clarity for him today. And now he wasn’t so sure about his decision to remain in law enforcement. Maybe he should’ve stayed in Detroit, focused on infiltration and rescue operations...

This was officially the first time he’d had to pause and remind himself why he’d come here -- and only on his fourth day, no less. That wasn’t a very promising statistic, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that he’d already learned a great deal. He wouldn’t get caught like this afternoon ever again.

For now, he just had to have a bit of faith -- in the future, himself, his partner...in life itself, he supposed. And for her part, Evelyn hatched a plan pretty quickly. Considering she was off-duty, she was limited in how she could respond to this, and considering the only evidence they had on-hand was Connor’s own memory, they’d need a confession.

She’d need to talk with one or both of the assailants and procure one. Luckily, Connor had seen the delivery truck and easily determined where the main shop was located. She was also given the men’s names and descriptions, so she knew what she was looking for. If the assailants weren’t there, Evelyn or Connor could easily get their hands on the delivery schedule and track down the men that way.

Those men weren’t getting out of this without repercussions.

Evelyn’s plan was to go in there under the guise of investigating the altercation in the street -- which was as much a ruse as a legitimate reason, the point being to look into a disturbance while fishing for a law-abiding reason to make an arrest.

She was specifically looking for a confession that they’d intentionally incited a riot, and Connor felt reasonably certain she’d manage that. The men had been very vocal about the attack and clearly felt no remorse for their actions. It wouldn’t be hard to get them to talk about it.

His main worry with this plan was the fact that Evelyn was a female of -- visually -- slight build. Gabriel Lopez, especially, had displayed aggression and impulsiveness, and Connor could envision the man attacking Evelyn outright when she attempted to make an arrest. Granted, he fully expected her to be able to defend herself, but he couldn’t help his concern.

She was a precious individual. She’d spent a good half hour quietly listening to and comforting him, cementing herself in his life in the process. After all that he didn’t want her getting injured on his behalf, even if it meant bringing justice to bigots.

Her safety was more important.

Alas, she didn’t echo his concerns, though she agreed to his immediate safety demands nonetheless. That was a plus.

Once the plan was in place, Forbes decided to shower, opting to present herself as the professional she was rather than an unwashed scrub. It didn’t take long, and then she stepped out of the bedroom in another, similar outfit to the kind he’d seen her wearing before: button-up shirt and slacks, in the process of tying her hair back.

Then she noted his jacket on the floor, retrieving it. Holding it up, she checked, “And this is...?” 

Embarrassed, he admitted, “I got angry at it.”

“At the coat?” she asked, doubtful.

He sighed. “It was the only thing identifying me as an android -- and all they’d needed to act on their hate.”

She nodded, taking that in. “So you decided to get rid of it,” she concluded.

That had him hedging, “Well...I do still like it, I was just angry and didn’t know how to deal with it.”

“...So you had a tantrum,” she deduced.

That worsened his embarrassment. “It wasn’t a--a tantrum, I was...angry. And it was stupid. Here,” he prompted, holding out his hand, intending to take it.

There was a certain gleam to her eye that said she wanted to tease him, but she handed it over instead, saying, “That’s kind of the definition of a tantrum. And there’s no reason to be embarrassed by that,” she told him. “We all lose it sometimes. It’s the unpredictability of emotion.”

He was already pulling the jacket back on, and now he checked, “Then you’ve lost your temper before, detective?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, nodding. “Pretty frequently.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Yeah, well, technically we’ve only just met,” she pointed out. Sidestepping him, she headed for the door, getting her shoes on as she added, “I do my best not to...snap, and I like to think my threshold is above average, but it happens.”

Curious, he prompted, “Give me an example.”

Glancing up, she checked, “Why do you want to know?”

“To get to know you,” he answered easily. “As you said, we barely know each other. I want to know who my partner is.”

That seemed to please her, and she smiled -- though the effect was somewhat lessened by her bright purple bruise along her jaw. “How’s this: the time I took a food tray to a kid’s face in high school.”

His eyes widened, surprised. He had trouble envisioning her being so outright violent, even after witnessing her sparring with another. “That’d work,” he replied, a little stunned.

She chuckled, then winced, holding her cheek.

“You should probably get that checked out,” he noted. He’d already scanned it and concluded there weren’t any surface fractures, but that didn’t mean the bone hadn’t been bruised -- just that _ he _ couldn’t see it.

That was a notable limit to his scans: he could see obvious wounds, breaks, hematoma, clotting, and the like -- things that changed a human body’s structure physically -- and he could pick up on motions and sounds of the organs. What he couldn’t see was everything else, including viruses, damage within bones, and the brain as a whole. Anything an X-ray or MRI would be required to detect, he couldn’t.

If there were any problems inside Evelyn’s jaw, he wasn’t aware of it.

She waved a hand, dismissing his concern. “Trust me, I’ve had plenty of bruises. I know how to treat them.”

“What if it’s worse than that?” he challenged. “What if there’s an inner fracture and another hit breaks your jaw?”

“Then I’ll be admitted to a hospital,” she told him, “but going _ now _ won’t help anything. I’ll just eat _ gently _ for the time being.”

He accepted that -- begrudgingly. He didn’t want her getting injured, especially not with how long humans took to recover from such injuries.

He asked, “Does J often hurt you so badly?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes. She’s broken my ribs a few times. Collarbone once,” she added, gesturing her left one. “They’re few and far between, though, and whenever we get hurt like that we stop, so don’t worry about it.”

He wasn’t worried -- he was _ horrified. _ Knowing how devastating wounds could be for humans, he found it difficult to accept her nonchalant attitude. As she headed out, he followed with a sense of stun. How could she be so...dismissive? She’d received broken bones from J and still they sparred? Why? What was the point?

Seemingly oblivious to his shock, she began as they walked, “So I promised you a story, right?”

Not exactly, but he agreed, “You smacked a kid in the face with a food tray?”

She gave another chuckle, but it was an almost exasperated sound. “Yeah, I did,” she confessed, conflicted. “Here’s a fun game: guess what we were arguing about when it happened.”

He’d need significantly more information to extrapolate that. “How old were you both?” he prompted.

“I was 15, she was 16.”

“‘She’,” he echoed. “Two teenage girls in a cafeteria...” Thinking, he ran the statistics, concluding, “A romantic conflict?”

She gave a laugh. “Correct, actually. We were fighting over a boy.”

“It was the most likely scenario,” he told her.

“Agreed. The short version is I wanted him, and he was with her but flirting with me, and she more or less tried to convince me to back off. We argued, then started insulting each other. Then she said something like, ‘It figures, you’re part of _ that _ family,’ and...” She stopped there, miming picking up a large tray and swinging it at an invisible opponent. 

“Ouch,” he commented, making a mental note to not insult Evelyn’s family in the future. Then, curious, he asked, “What did she mean by that -- your family?”

Nodding, she explained, “Trinilyn. That’s what we were called in school, my sisters and me. Carrie was...pretty mature, but Maddie tended to act out. She was wild. I more followed in her footsteps than Carrie’s. I’m the youngest,” she added towards him.

They got into her Mustang as she said this, and after strapping himself in, he checked, “Sisters -- plural?” That didn’t align with the information he’d received. “I thought you only had one, and her name is Carol, not Carrie.” 

Evelyn gave him a confused look. “Where’d you get _ that _ from?”

“Your public file,” he told her. “I investigated you before I accepted your request. The file included your immediate relatives. No offense intended, but I needed to know who you were, make a judgement call.”

She inclined her head. “Sensible, I guess. Forgivable caution. But let me ask: did you happen to check my _ deceased _ relatives?”

He...hadn’t. And now that she pointed it out, he paused to run her file one more time, paying attention to _ all _ her relatives -- not just the ones currently living.

Aside from her grandparents and a few more distant relations, another name was listed: Madelyn Forbes.

_ Maddie, _ he concluded.

Aloud, he replied quietly, “Oh. I’m sorry.”

She gave a small shrug. “It was four years ago, now. Oh -- and Carol?” she added. “Her name is Carolyn. She likes to go by ‘Carol’ now so that’s how she signs her name. But our nicknames were Carrie, Maddie...and Evie.”

That was cute, in a way. “Carolyn...Madelyn...Evelyn,” he noted aloud.

“My parents think they’re clever,” she commented dryly. “And it gets better -- our middle names? Carolyn _ Ellen, _ Madelyn _ Cora, _ Evelyn _ May.” _

Hah. “Those...almost rhyme,” he said, amused. Their initials were C.E., M.C., and E.M. He had to agree with her, there: her parents certainly _ thought _ they were clever. 

She inclined her head. “I’m sure Carrie and Maddie’s names were chosen without a real theme, they just decided to _ make _ it a theme when I came around.”

‘They’ being her parents, he concluded. “And ‘Trinilyn’, the nickname?” He thought he understood, but...

“’Trinity’ plus ‘lyn’. Cause you know who else thinks they’re clever? Teenagers,” she answered herself with dripping sarcasm.

He imagined so, though he hadn’t actually spoken to any teenagers directly -- yet. Then, in the interest of getting back on topic, he pressed, “So, back to you losing your temper...”

She gave an embarrassed chuckle, starting the car. As she headed out, she explained, “Right, that. I was pretty...confrontational back then. It’s mellowed out, but...you never really get over that. Not fully. Feels weirdly good to just let go like that, act on impulse. In retrospect, I regret that fight, but even the memory is...satisfying, in a twisted way.”

Figuring it wasn’t good for her to be ruminating like that, he changed the subject, prompting, “And what happened to the girl?”

“Bruised her. She got a bloody nose and claimed I’d broken it, but I didn’t. What’s kind of funny is...I don’t remember grabbing the tray,” she said, thoughtful. “I remember swinging it, but I didn’t have control over that. And then Desiree was on the ground and I was being tackled...the faculty didn’t stand for that kind of thing,” she informed him. “Zero tolerance on fighting and bullying and such. It’s a good policy.”

He agreed. “And Desiree,” he checked, “did she press charges or anything?”

“Teenagers couldn’t really do that,” she pointed out, “but I _ was _ punished. Had to spend my afternoons doing manual labor in the gym, sort of halfway working out. And our parents got involved, but _ my _ Dad was higher-ranked than _ her _ Dad so they just compromised.”

“And your parents, were they alright with this punishment?” he asked, curious.

“Oh, more than -- my Dad suggested it,” she said dryly. “He has this interesting way of describing it, that he doesn’t believe in or condone _ violent _ punishment, but he does condone _ physical _ punishment. The difference being that violent punishment is striking or beating, while physical is just working off your debt.”

“In your case, exercising,” Connor concluded.

“Not exactly. I was more organizing the weights, moving the machines, and so on. And lemme tell ya, it worked -- never started another fight again. At school,” she clarified.

He could see that. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but it also seems like it might’ve shaped your adult life, as well. Like you took a liking to it.”

“The whole working-in-a-gym thing?” she checked. He nodded; she scoffed. “Oh, Hell, no. I avoided gyms for the longest time. If I didn’t have to keep myself in shape for my job, I wouldn’t go to them at all -- well, not until recently, anyway.”

“Oh?” he prompted. “And what changed between then and now?”

Hedging, she offered, “I got...hurt. On the job. The recovery was...intense. Lengthy. Believe it or not, Brass Balls helped with that. A lot. My head’s more clear since I started going there.” 

Curious, he asked, “What about it helps you so much?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. It’s...warm, welcoming...encouraging,” she tried, clearly having difficulty picking the right words. “It’s like...home.”

That sounded amazing, he admitted. He didn’t know what that felt like -- the concept of “home”. To an extent, he missed Detroit, but not in a way that felt like how humans described homesickness...which meant he’d never considered it to be his home.

Perhaps L.A. would be -- in time.

* * *

The rest of the drive was more serious and subdued. They discussed their plan, working out contingencies, extending ideas and the like. It was more Connor worrying over Evelyn getting hurt -- even the most rudimentary of scuffles carried risk, no matter how low, and those statistics were statistics specifically because they occurred for _ someone _ \-- and Evelyn becoming visibly more irritated with time yet agreeing to his ever-increasing number of stipulations. 

By the time they arrived at the flower shop, he could see she was _ relieved _ to get there. And after confirming that this was the place and that at least one of the men was here (he could see Rudolph through the front windows), she headed inside. For his part, Connor found a vantage point outside the shop so he could see within, hugging a wall to keep out of easy sight. And now he was just waiting on a signal from Evelyn to know when he should come inside. 

He heard a few words here and there, though he was more reading lips at this point. Evelyn declared she was following up on a report of a public disturbance and someone had identified workers of this particular establishment as participants -- and Rudolph was _ immediately _confirming it, if not outright bragging.

Just as Connor had known he would.

Rudolph gave his version of the events, and in all fairness, Connor knew Rudolph actually believed what he was saying was the truth: that he’d caught an android running after a human with intent to harm, that he and Gabriel had been defending the human in question. But when Evelyn followed up with a query as to the identity of the person, and pointedly if he’d even asked for help, Rudolph faltered.

Evidently, despite claiming being a hero, neither of the men had actually tried to locate Ton, thus negating their claims. 

Connor heard Evelyn’s response then very clearly:

"Okay, got it. You and another male incited a riot and assaulted a citizen without motive,” she declared. 

“W-what?” was Rudolph’s response, stunned. She repeated herself with more enunciation; he blurted, “Citi-- androids ain’t people! They’re _ machines, _ like cars--” 

“They’re people -- both by law and by fact,” she interrupted firmly. “If you were concerned an android had been chasing a human with intent to harm, you should’ve called the police. The fact that you didn’t implies you didn’t care about what was actually happening, you just wanted to hurt someone.” 

Fuming, he snapped more loudly, “Androids. Ain’t. People!” 

“Mm-hmm,” was her dry reaction. “Tell me: if you truly believed you were saving someone, that the android in question was a threat, why didn’t you call the police -- during or after? Why didn’t you report the crime?” 

Hesitating, he struggled out, “It -- ran off, it was gone--” 

“Your logic is flawed,” she observed. “The ironic thing is that if you _ had _ called the police, the most likely one to respond--” she gestured the door, curling her fingers in an inviting way; Connor pushed away from the wall to enter the shop “--would’ve been the same one you attempted to assault: an android officer.” 

The bell at the door heralded his entry, and Rudolph openly stared in shock for a solid four seconds before reacting. 

Incensed, he waved a hand at Connor as he spoke to Evelyn, “Are you -- fucking -- android _ officer?! _ Androids can’t be officers!” 

“No?” she challenged with a laugh. “Then what do you call the ones who’ve been officers for the last six years?” 

Rudolph struggled to respond, making grunting noises, so Connor strode up beside Evelyn and said to him, “My name is Connor. I’m a detective with the 22nd precinct. The individual I was ‘chasing’ earlier was in a blind panic. My intent was to protect and calm him so he didn’t get hurt, but you never gave me the chance to explain.” 

While the male remained in stun, Evelyn handed Connor a pair of handcuffs as she said, “Rudolph Valentin, you’re under arrest for inciting a riot.” 

Connor gladly made the arrest, stepping behind Rudolph to cuff him. The human started to protest, shuffling aside and blurting excuses, but Evelyn got him to stop with a firm, “Do you really want to add ‘resisting arrest’ to your list, Rudolph?” 

A few minutes later a cruiser arrived to take the human away, who’d been sitting on the curb with Evelyn watching him. Connor had taken the time to check the delivery schedule to find out where Gabriel Lopez was, discovering that he should return here to the shop within ten minutes. So they waited. 

Gabriel’s arrest was far more violent. He started to lunge for Connor on sight, but Evelyn stepped between them and twisted Gabriel around to pin him against her vehicle, cuffing him as she declared his arrest and started listing his rights. It was an incredibly satisfying sight for Connor, watching the human get so swiftly disabled by his partner. 

The cruiser had been waiting for the second arrest, and after both males were loaded up it started back to the precinct. 

Evelyn dusted her hands. “Another day, another piece of scum off the streets.” 

He echoed the sentiment, giving her a warm smile. “Thank you for this,” he told her. 

She smiled back. “If I may repeat myself: whatever you need.” 

He couldn’t help himself, then. Touched as he was by her, he looped an arm around her to tug her in for a hug. His first ever, if he was honest. 

And, as she returned the gesture with a chuckle, arms hugging him around the middle, he felt...good. At once he knew he liked hugs and made a conscious decision to perform them often -- without crossing social boundaries, of course. 

The question now was determining where those boundaries were, exactly. 

“Now,” she began as she pulled back, “we never talked about what you learned today. That guy -- Ton, was it? -- did he say anything useful?” 

He had, but the reminder of him had Connor hesitating. He didn’t know where Ton had gone, nor if he was okay. So Connor responded, “Actually, I think I should find him. I want to make sure he’s unharmed.” 

Evelyn considered that, then offered, “Alright, where do we start? Where was the last place you saw him?” 

He gave her a strained smile. “It’s your day off,” he reminded her. “I don’t want to overwork you by demanding your assistance.” 

“I wasn’t asking,” she pointed out.

Though that pleased him, he didn’t want her stressing herself out. He replied, “Weren’t you the one who said even detectives need time off?”

She shrugged. “Homicide detectives are never really ‘off’. Besides, I’ve had it easy today. May as well track this while the trail is fresh.”

That pulled a grateful smile out of him. “Very well,” he allowed, relenting, “but I was actually planning on just calling him first.”

“You have his number?” she checked, surprised.

“No -- but I can find it,” he explained, already doing so. Vietnamese people were a minority in L.A., after all, making his name likely a unique one, and Connor had access to any contact information in police databanks. It didn’t take but a few moments to search for Ton’s name, come up positive, and make the call.

No answer, so he left a short message: “Mr. Hoang, this is Connor. I was calling to check and see if you made it home alright. You can call back at this contact at any time to reach me if you need to. Goodbye.”

Though he hung up then, he wasn’t at all comforted, given Ton hadn’t answered. To Evelyn, he said, “I think we should check his apartment.”

“He might not’ve made it back there,” she pointed out, “or he just might be asleep or avoiding his phone. In this case I think it’s better to start where you last saw him.”

And she had experience on him, he admitted, making her advice highly valuable. Agreeing, he gave her the crossroads as they headed back into her vehicle, and once they started off he realized he should make an incident report about today’s scuffle. He devoted a portion of his processors to doing so. They spoke in the meanwhile with him explaining what Ton had relayed to him.

Evelyn sounded surprised, checking, “So, wait -- he thinks it was internal, that Montgomery was assassinated by one of his colleagues?”

“Believes it to the point that he fled at the first inkling that he might become a target,” Connor agreed. 

She gave a low whistle. “That’s...pretty unlikely, for lawyers.”

“It’s a good motive,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, but lawyers aren’t really known for acting outside the law,” she returned. “The law is their shield -- they always make sure to cover their asses whenever possible. Just outright assassinating someone breaks that very directly.”

“Unless they had a perfect cover,” he reasoned, “a shroud that allowed them to act freely.”

“Maybe,” she allowed, “but in that case it’d have to be some damn good defense -- both from within the law and outside of it, in this case. If you’re right and Dulcevey is involved--”

“It wouldn’t be a secret,” he worked out, “which would imply whoever assassinated him at least believed they had enough protection to avoid repercussions.”

Thoughtful, she said, “I can think of four criminal families with about as much fame and power as Dulcevey. Any one of them could’ve put out the hit and could be protecting the shooters.”

He ran the files again, recognizing Montilyet, Milano, Ferreira, and Saldaña as the four largest crime families in L.A. (presently). Dulcevey had a presence here but nowhere near the raw power the others held; it was entirely likely that one of them chose to eliminate Montgomery, knowing full well Dulcevey couldn’t retaliate.

What he couldn’t figure -- yet -- was the motive behind it. All appearances suggested that all five of the families were partners -- or, at least, avoiding aggression. For one of them to target another like this...it meant whatever truce was in place had been dismantled. It meant what Forbes had clearly been fearing: a gang war.

He relayed as much to her and she sighed, replying, “So either we’ve got an internal hit -- a group of lawyers assassinating another -- or we’ve got a potential film-style mafia war brewing. Fantastic.”

Reluctant, he added, “And, at this point, they’re equally likely. We have no solid evidence for either.”

She gave a groan. “I am _ not _ loving this,” she complained.

He chuckled. “On the bright side,” he tried, “if we succeed in cracking this, it’ll be a massive career boost for us both.”

Inclining her head, she agreed, “Got a point, there.”

“Best case scenario,” he went on, “we solve the case and put away multiple very powerful criminals -- cleaning the scum off the streets,” he stressed.

That pulled a little smile out of her. “Excellent argument,” she approved. “You know, logic like that, you could be a lawyer, too.”

He could, he admitted, though there was no appeal in it. “Maybe. But I prefer this job.”

“Good news for me, then,” she teased.

Smirking, he checked, “Is it?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s nice having someone more competent than me doing all the heavy lifting, making me look good,” she joked.

He chuckled. “I’m pretty sure your decade of experience trumps my six months,” he pointed out.

“And your fancy features trumps all of the above,” she returned. “You’re finding multiple leads by the day -- even on your days off. I can’t match that, even on my best day.”

He got the feeling this conversation was turning downwards, then, so he responded, “Maybe, but I wouldn’t have made it half this far without you -- both literally and figuratively.”

She spared him a glance, doubtful. “You’ve found literally every major break we’ve looked into,” she told him.

“And you enabled them all,” he shot back. “You’ve been as valuable to me as I’ve been to you. Besides,” he added more lightly, “two heads are better than one. Whoever is better is irrelevant; we’re best together.”

She inclined her head, looking pleased. “You’re brilliant, you know that?” she asked.

He smiled. “In this case, I’m only being sincere.”

“Well, your sincerity is giving me pangs,” she mock-complained, patting her chest.

That hadn’t been his intention, but it made him happy. After what had happened today he wanted _ her _ to be happy, and her good mood fueled his.

It didn’t take long to reach the intersection where he’d last seen Ton, and from there he started scanning everything in sight for clues as to which way Ton had gone. It wasn’t easy -- he had no profile on Ton’s DNA, hair, fingerprints, or the material of his shoes, leaving Connor with travel evidence and nothing else. And this was a busy street-corner. What little there’d been had since been pulverized.

Evelyn questioned pedestrians while he scanned, looking for leads primarily in the nearby buildings and businesses. Ultimately she found a lead before he did, even with all his “fancy features”, thus proving his earlier statement. He absolutely needed her as much as she needed him.

They were the most prolific as a team.

“See?” he said, gesturing to her. “You found the lead before I did, even with all my advantages. You’re valuable,” he told her.

She smiled. “Flatterer,” she chided.

“Honest,” he corrected.

Her expression warmed at that -- a surprise, that; he hadn’t expected her to react so strongly.

And then she replied, “Me, too,” and he understood.

By declaring himself honest, he was giving them another shared trait. She evidently valued that. That was good to know, on top of being generally a good thing.

More and more he was finding he could trust her implicitly.

They followed the lead on foot, giving him time to scan things as he went, looking for anything out of the way. So far he concluded that Ton had made a sharp left after making it past that van (implying he’d been trying to shake off Connor, which was another concern to work out), went inside a nearby clothing store, and bashed his way out of the back door into an alley.

He’d clearly been determined to get away.

The alley was easier to scan in terms of evidence remaining after the couple of hours that had passed, and Connor was able to find shoe impressions fitting with someone of Ton’s height and follow them.

He wasn’t expecting where they led. 


	14. Dulcevey

**Rating:** PG-13 (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

The trail Ton left behind continued for a long while -- seven minutes to follow on foot, in fact. And the curious thing was the fact that Connor’s scans started coming back with evidence that Ton had changed his movement almost immediately after Connor had lost sight of him. His foot traffic slowed, stopped, went backwards towards the shop, and finally continued forward -- at a walking pace. Even more curiously, Ton seemed to have started to touch things as he went -- as if intentionally leaving evidence for Connor to follow. The fingerprints were easy to spot.

Connor relayed as much to Forbes, suspicious that Ton’s fear had been an act. And she echoed the sentiment, suggesting they both proceed with caution. Her hand settled at her hip -- at her sidearm. 

Both on high alert, they continued onward, going slow and paying attention to their environment. The path was mostly straight from here on out, only turning twice before the footprints ceased at a street corner. Most likely, Ton had entered a vehicle here. 

Connor glanced around then, looking for cameras. Nearly every place of business and intersection had outward-facing cameras at this point. so it wasn’t difficult to locate a few. He zeroed in on the one most likely to give him the information he needed -- outside a cafe -- and relayed as much to Evelyn. 

A little more at ease after their long trek with no interruptions, her pose was relaxed, and she gestured the shop. “Let’s go digging,” she suggested. 

She headed inside first and he followed behind, immediately sweeping the interior of the cafe. He spotted seven humans and no androids, three of the humans clearly employees and the rest patrons. Evelyn approached the counter, already pulling up her badge. 

She introduced them and explained that she needed to view their CCTV footage from two hours prior while Connor made notes of the establishment. It was very pristine, notably high-scale, with a perfect health code on display and numerous sweets and snacks cycling through a digital display. And almost at once, he encountered a red flag. 

This was no coincidence, he realized. Ton stopping here was planned. With all the knowledge Connor had compiled over the last day, he knew immediately that this place was favored by and under the protection of the Dulcevey family. 

Alarmed, he stopped Evelyn before she could follow an employee to a back room, catching her by the arm and urging her to step outside with him. 

She stuttered at first, confused and concerned, but followed his pull. Once outside, she asked quietly, “What’s gotten into you? What’s going on?” 

“There’s a high probability this is a trap,” he rushed out, worried. At this point his scans never ceased, watching everything around him, even as he told her firmly, “This cafe -- it’s frequented by the Dulceveys. Ton came here on purpose -- he was trying to lead me here on purpose.” 

Evelyn’s alarm quickly rose to match his, and she glanced back into the shop before asking, “Do you recognize any of the patrons?” 

“No,” he denied, though he gave them another look. 

Struggling for possible motives, she checked, “Could Ton have been taken here against his will?” 

“No -- his footprints were solo. He came here autonomously,” he concluded. 

Thoughtful, she asked, “Could he have been taken _ away _ from here against his will?” 

“Possibly,” Connor answered. What evidence he could find didn’t imply a struggle, but it didn’t prove the opposite, either. Ton could’ve been coerced without being physically accosted. 

Hedging, she tried, “Does it seem like he went inside, first?” 

“No, his foot traffic never entered the building.” 

“So he came here and immediately got in a car and left,” she worked out. 

“Yes.” 

Glancing up at him, suspicious, she asked, “Why? What’s he doing?” 

“He could’ve come here looking for protection,” he offered, “but never made it inside.” 

“Or he was specifically looking to lead you here,” she suggested, “knowing you’d be able to put the pieces together.” 

“But then where did he go, and why didn’t he answer my call?” he demanded. 

Shaking her head, she said, “Your guess is as good as mine. I still say we should look at the recordings -- it’d at least give us a license plate, hopefully.” 

He was doubtful about that, given all of this contradictory information, but he gave her a nod. Then, very serious, he told her, “Don’t leave my sight. Not for a second, no matter what.” 

She smiled. “I can take care of myself,” she told him. 

Right now he couldn’t trust that. There were too many unknowns, too many variables. “Please,” he pressed. 

Her gaze softened. “Alright,” she allowed. “This is practically your case at this point, anyway. You make the calls.” 

He appreciated that more than he could say. He was actually tempted to give her another hug, but with the current tension he was under he decided against it. 

Instead, he said, “Stay close to me. Just in case.” 

She nodded. “On your six,” she said, outright promising to watch his back. 

Touched, he had to reign in a surge of affection, reminding himself that Ton could still be in danger -- if he wasn’t outright leading Connor on a wild goose chase, that is. Time was still of the essence.

They entered again, and the worker from before -- Charlotte Francis, age 34 -- watched them, curious and suspicious.

To her, he said, “I apologize for interrupting. There was a pressing issue. May we see that footage, now?”

Charlotte nodded, saying, “This way.” She gestured them behind the counter, through the kitchen, and into a back room.

It was definitely your average security room, he concluded. Four cameras total kept an eye on the premises: two in the main diner, one in the kitchen, one facing the outdoor eating section. He pointed that one out, estimated how long it’d have taken Ton to reach this area from the last time Connor had seen him, and gave that time frame.

Charlotte rewound the feed to that time and they waited. It took a few more minutes before he saw Ton arrive to the feed, a phone held to his ear. The male paused there, waiting, and within a minute a vehicle pulled up behind him. The back door opened and Ton stepped in, no hesitation.

Connor caught someone else in the back seat already, though he could only see a hand and the person’s feet. The recording had an impressive quality, too, allowing him to recognize colored nails on the hand and heels on the feet -- likely a female, then. The hand had briefly beckoned Ton to enter, proving that the two knew one another.

The vehicle wasn’t modern, he noted immediately. It was older, a 2027 Renault Gargouille -- a French car. It was designed to look like an older type of sedan, slightly more box-shaped than curved, in a deep, rich burgundy shade. Its accents were bright, shiny gold, and between the car brand and the license plate he could see clearly, he concluded that the vehicle belonged to the Dulceveys. His research had proved correct.

The Dulceveys were involved, somehow.

The fact that Ton so easily went into that vehicle told Connor that they were definitely in cahoots, that Montgomery was likely involved, and that it was more than likely _ not _ them who’d had Montgomery assassinated. But this turn of events merely added to his slew of questions, burning with a need to know how and why all this had occurred.

He had all this figured out in seconds thanks to his processors, and when he turned to Forbes, he found her retrieving her phone. Expecting her to call the precinct to run the plate, he stopped her, saying, “I already checked the license plate. It’s Dulcevey’s.”

She stopped, putting her phone back in her pocket. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled heavily, then replied, “So that’s one confirmation: Dulcevey is involved.”

“The question remains: how and why,” he replied.

Charlotte gave a soft laugh. “Why don’t you try asking them?” she suggested.

Evelyn and Connor shared a look. Then Evelyn began cautiously, “What makes you think they’d talk to us?”

Smiling, Charlotte rose from her seat, then reached into her apron. Evelyn’s hand went right to her sidearm, tense, and Connor eyed Charlotte close -- but she wasn’t doing anything threatening, he found. She retrieved a small slip of folded paper and handed it to him without a word.

“If you’re done here,” she said, “you should go.”

He was. The feed had given him plenty of information, and he nodded towards Evelyn, encouraging her to back down. She did so, hand sliding from her hip as she backed towards the door. She didn’t take her eyes off Charlotte until she was out of the room, Connor right on her heels.

The fact that Charlotte didn’t try anything as they left was suspicious in and of itself, but it was starting to give him an idea: that the Dulceveys were watching him. Well, he amended, not necessarily him, but the investigation.

Once they were outside and on their way back to Evelyn’s vehicle, he opened the paper and read it. It was in French, he noted immediately, and clearly written on personalized parchment, a flowery design bordering the whole. Once translated it read simply, “Sorry we missed you this afternoon. Why don’t you come to our estate to talk privately? We have much to discuss.”

It was signed, “Émelie Dulcevey.”

Holy. Shit.

He relayed all this to Evelyn aloud, including the address given at the bottom of the note. And she was as surprised as he was, staring at him wide-eyed.

She choked out, “Y-you got the attention of a crime family. Jesus Christ.”

“And an invitation,” he pointed out.

Hesitant, she checked, “Are you going to accept?”

“...Yes,” he answered after a second of thought. There was no real downside to this, based on what he knew so far; all signs pointed towards the Dulceveys being upset by Montgomery’s death. They’d want justice, he thought. He believed he could trust the invitation to be legitimate.

Evelyn looked more wary, chewing on her lip before venturing, “Does it say anything about being allowed a plus-one?”

She wanted to go, he concluded immediately, and he couldn’t blame her. They were partners, and after today it was becoming increasingly obvious they were equally protective of one another.

“I read it verbatim,” he told her. “It didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“A loophole,” she declared, sounding relieved. “It’s worth a shot. I’ll drive,” she told him.

He calculated the route, replying, “It’s further north from here. It’ll take close to an hour to get there.”

“Good. In the meantime,” she said, “we can try to figure out this bizarre case.”

* * *

They spoke a lot during the trip, comparing notes and working out theories. Based on the evidence collected, they eventually concluded that the Dulcevey family had _ not _ eliminated Montgomery, and were in fact watching the investigation to see where it led. Most likely Ton Hoang was under their employ as well, and he’d intentionally led Connor to that cafe to receive Émelie’s invite -- he just had to do so in an indirect way in case whoever had killed Montgomery was watching Ton, too.

The question, then, was why had the family waited to initiate this contact.

Evelyn offered, “My guess? They were waiting to see if we were competent enough to bother with us.”

That made sense, Connor admitted. Thus far the investigation had been more of a comedy show than anything, though he couldn’t blame them for that. It was hectic in the precinct, everyone overworked and stressed.

He asked then, “Have you ever investigated the Dulcevey family before?”

“Personally? No,” she answered. “They’re...pretty clean, overall. We very rarely see any actual evidence of their involvement in any crime that comes our way. I’d guess they try very hard to keep above the law -- less chance of actually drawing detectives that way,” she hinted with an amused smirk.

“And now they’ve invited detectives directly to their estate,” he noted, sharing her humor.

“Which would imply this is very serious,” she commented. “At least for them.”

And he couldn’t wait to see their explanation for all this.

“I am somewhat concerned about this,” he said then. “If it is a trap, we’re walking directly into it.” Giving her a look, he stressed, “I don’t want you getting murdered.”

“They wouldn’t,” she assured him. “Generally, gangs and crime families try to stay _ away _ from the police as much as possible. They don’t take killing lightly, either. We’re both going to be just fine,” she told him.

Statistics backed her up, but he couldn’t help checking, “How can you be so sure?”

She shrugged. “Statistics,” she answered, confirming his thoughts. “I learned a while back that official training for FBI agents and such who go undercover is to reveal the truth if they’re ever facing possible death. They know that no gang is going to want to invite a full investigation if an agent comes up missing or dead, so they generally choose to just get the agent out of there.”

He wasn’t as confident as she was that this extended to police officers, and he wouldn’t gamble with her life regardless, but it did put him a bit more at ease. And it stressed how much he still didn’t know; aside from required psychological knowledge for tracking criminals, he hadn’t been given a great deal of information. He was far from a complete encyclopedia. This, he thought, was intentional; CyberLife had probably planned on using what he learned to determine how much future RK800s would need to know to be effective detectives. The downsides of being a prototype, he thought.

He decided then to start researching everything he could, to compile his knowledge and add everything he could to his memory. More and more he was learning that he couldn’t predict what information would be useful, so it was smart to just try and learn everything rather than waiting for prompts from his active cases.

Aloud, he replied, “Even so, we should be careful. I’ll be keeping my scans active, just in case. It shouldn’t slow me down,” he told her, “but if I seem...sluggish, that would be why.”

“Understood,” she said, nodding.

The estate was, predictably, grand. Not excessively large -- lacking blueprints, he could only estimate the building they approached contained a maximum of 20 rooms; fitting for a mansion belonging to a crime family, he thought -- but the grounds were gorgeous. Everything was green and rich with flowers, even despite the near-extinction the bees were facing.

Someone was putting a massive amount of effort into this garden, and in a way, he appreciated that. He found he liked nature, its chaos and beauty. Even controlled as they were, the plants still found ways to grow however they saw fit. No amount of trimming or guiding would stop them from doing so.

In a way, it was a metaphor for the revolution.

A fountain with gargoyle-type statues spitting water was at the center of the main roundabout leading up to the door, and he saw more along the edges of the roof. Noting the theme, he wondered what they would find inside the home. It didn’t seem gothic from the exterior, yet the gargoyles were numerous. He couldn’t help wondering about their significance.

Evelyn pulled up towards the entrance and a trio of finely-dressed men approached. Connor scanned them immediately.

[Rémy Corriveau, born 5/11/2001, 5′7″, 167.3lbs, criminal record: assault, assault with a deadly weapon, public intoxication.]

[Jean-Paul Édouard, born 4/21/2007, 6′2″, 204.7lbs, criminal record: D.U.I., drug possession.]

[Martin Rouzet, born 9/03/2003, 5′4″, 142.1lbs, criminal record: none.]

Rolling his window down, Connor handed over the letter, and was gestured to wait while they checked it. They spoke French, and he listened as they talked through wireless devices.

It was simple: one of the men checked in with Émelie, giving the note’s description, then Connor’s, Evelyn’s, and even the car’s. Ultimately he was given the all-clear and the detectives were addressed directly.

“Follow me,” Jean-Paul told them, direct.

Evelyn quickly interjected, “Where should I park?”

The man gestured the vehicle. “Here would be fine. This shouldn’t take long.”

Connor and Evelyn shared a glance. He was a little bit more tense now than before, and he had to take an instant to weigh the possibilities of entering the domain. There was a chance -- small though it was -- that they wouldn’t be making it back out.

But that was a ridiculous concern. All the evidence suggested the opposite -- that they were invited to offer help.

Evelyn still looked suspicious and cautious as she exited the car, contrary to her earlier words. A part of him wanted her to wait here and let him handle the meeting, but that would only leave them both _ more _ vulnerable. Whatever happened with Émelie, he told himself, they could handle it.

As they approached, however, the other guards gestured them to stop. In English, Martin directed, “I’ll need your weapons.”

Connor didn’t have any, but Evelyn responded, “Can’t do that. It’s a service weapon -- I can’t leave it with anyone else.”

The men glanced at each other, and though Connor was concerned this would halt them from proceeding, apparently the men had been directed to play nice.

Martin said to her, “Is that your only weapon?”

“Yes,” she answered easily.

_ Aside from her fists, _ Connor thought.

To him, Martin checked, “And you?”

Connor shook his head. “I have no weapons.”

They had a brief conversation in French, ultimately deciding to let a metal detector determine the truth. Rémy pulled one from where he’d had it tucked into his belt and handed it to Jean-Paul.

Amused, Connor lifted his arms, waiting. When he glanced at Evelyn, he saw her similarly amused, smirking.

It took Jean-Paul just one second to recognize the obvious serial ID and android markers of Connor’s jacket, though he looked just surprised enough to suggest he hadn’t noticed until now. Shaking his head with a reluctant kind of smile, he ran the object over Connor’s form -- and, sure enough, it buzzed and whizzed the entire time.

Connor couldn’t help teasing, “Satisfied?”

Martin laughed, but Rémy looked less humorous.

Jean-Paul swapped to Evelyn then, and she removed her gun from its holster to hold it aside while he checked her. Other than reacting when it reached her badge and where she kept her lockpick set at her back, it reacted at her lower right leg.

Surprised, Connor watched as she commented, “That’s internal. Metal pegs in the bones.”

That would explain it, he thought: why she’d been favoring her leg during that sparring match with Janey. He wondered what had caused it but figured he’d ask at a later date. Now really wasn’t the time.

Rémy told Jean-Paul to check it in French, and he did so, crouching to lift up her pant leg. Sure enough, there was nothing out of place there, no secreted weaponry. He even gave her leg a firm pat and, finding nothing, got up, offering Rémy a shrug.

Evelyn looked tense, though, Connor noted. She’d been mostly impassive until they checked her leg. Her gaze didn’t leave Jean-Paul the whole time, and though she looked relaxed to outside observers, by now Connor was learning her tells. None of her muscles looked tense -- except her throat.

Something about that little check had scared her, he realized.

Feeling a surge of protectiveness, he said, “Are we done? I doubt your mistress wants to be kept waiting unnecessarily.”

Rémy, it seemed, was the suspicious sort, as well as being higher-ranked than the others. He told the other men to keep their eyes open but gave Jean-Paul the all-clear to take them to Émelie.

They were escorted inside, and he reflexively scanned the environment the instant he could see it. And it was as immaculate and fanciful as he’d expected; everything was pristine, dust-free, and most everything was carved from mahogany. Gold trim lined a few decorative tables and sofas in sight, as well as the doorways in sight. One doorway clearly led to a larger living room, but the others were closed off with sliding doors, and directly in front of them were a pair of staircases flanking another gargoyle statue, larger than the others.

Their guide led them up the staircase and to the right, around a corner. Moor doors lined the second floor -- eight, he found -- and all were closed except one. A bathroom, he noted as they passed it, with a light green aesthetic and shell patterns lining the walls midway up.

It wasn’t but a few more steps before they stopped, their guide rapping on a door. He spoke French again -- asking for entrance, Connor translated. He told Evelyn as much and she nodded.

They were granted entry, and Jean-Paul opened the door for them, gesturing them in. Cordial, the large male even commented, “I’ll send up a maid with refreshments.”

_ “Merci,” _ Evelyn replied as she passed him. Connor followed behind her, keeping himself between her and Jean-Paul.

This was clearly an office, he noted as he stepped within. A large, heavy desk was situated perpendicular to a set of windows, a pair of matching comfort chairs on its opposite side. Two bookcases flanked the desk on opposite walls, and directly behind it was a large flat-screen monitor.

Sitting at the desk, visibly relaxed, was a woman. Thick, dark brunette curls hung down past her shoulders, and she was dressed in a fine skirt-suit of modern cut. Her expression was one of intrigue.

Émelie Dulcevey, Connor deduced without having to scan her. He recognized her face just from the files he’d absorbed a few days prior. He knew everything about her -- her date of birth, her birth city and country, how many times she’d been charged with various crimes ranging from extortion to drug farming (24 times) as well as how many times she’d been convicted.

Only once.

She gave Evelyn a once-over before her gaze swapped to Connor -- and stuck.

“So, you’re the one,” she noted, sounding pleased.

Her accent was thin, he noted immediately. He replied, “You were expecting me?”

Sitting up, she gestured them in, giving the chairs a wave. “Of course,” she agreed. “I’ve been waiting for someone to find a lead--” she gave Evelyn another glance “--but thus far the police have been...underwhelming.”

Forbes inclined her head. “Sometimes leads take time.”

“And sometimes they require a...fresh perspective,” Émelie countered, gaze shifting back to Connor. “I wouldn’t have expected an android to make it so far, but you did. Or did you help?” she asked Evelyn.

“We’re partners,” Evelyn told her. “We helped each other.”

Émelie gave a noncommittal hum. Then, seeming to rally, she asked them both, “And? What ‘ave you found?”

Evelyn gave Connor a look that clearly read, _ Don’t say anything. _

He replied, “Actually, Mrs. Dulcevey, we were wondering what _ you _ know. You obviously knew Mr. Montgomery--”

“Yes, he was a friend,” she interrupted, voice taut. “His death was...upsetting.”

That was what he’d thought, but hearing the confirmation from Émelie was helpful all the same. “And,” he pressed, “I take it that means you’re invested in finding who did it and seeing them receive justice?”

She was quiet for a moment, then said simply, “Close enough.”

The maid arrived then, a smaller tray in her hands. She was dressed similarly to Émelie, Connor noted, and she placed the tray on the desk with a quiet greeting. A small coffee pot and smaller cups were present, as well as simple cookies. The maid -- Christelle Derocles, he deduced with a scan -- swiftly poured two cups and set them before Evelyn and Émelie, clearly aware that Connor wouldn’t be partaking.

Then she did a curtsy and stepped out, closing the door behind her. He took the moment to scan the drink -- just in case -- and concluded it was, unsurprisingly, an imported brand of French vanilla coffee, already sweetened.

Evelyn took the cup and gave it a subtle sniff, nodding to herself. She began, “Mrs. Dulcevey, I have to caution you _ against _ seeking retribution outside of the law--”

Émelie waved her hand, dismissive. “Caution all you wish, Sergeant Forbes. I will ‘ave my _ justice.” _ As she spoke, she retrieved her own cup, taking a sip.

Tense, Evelyn replied, “How do you know my name? I never introduced myself.”

“Bad manners, as well,” Émelie told her, “but irrelevant. I know you, you know me. Introductions are pointless. What is _ not _ pointless,” she said more firmly, “is what you can do for me now.”

And now Connor understood why they’d been invited: to strike a deal. “Which is?” he prompted.

Relaxing a fraction, she answered, “You will continue with your leads. Find who did this to my _ chérie _ Elias -- and who pointed the finger. Then, you will tell me.”

Evelyn was less than agreeable, replying, “You don’t order us, Mrs. Dulcevey. We aren’t on your payroll.”

“I can arrange that, if it makes you feel better,” Émelie told her, “but you will do this. It is not a question.”

Looking frustrated and offended, Evelyn glanced away; Connor stepped in, “Before we agree to anything, I need some questions answered.”

Émelie gave him a gesture to continue. “I am listening.”

“Ton Hoang,” he said simply.

She chuckled. “I supposed you would ‘ave figured that one out by now. He works for me. He keeps an eye on the company, on Elias. Before you ask,” she added, “no, Elias did not know.”

Digesting that, Evelyn commented, “Keeping eyes on your eyes, while remaining blind to each other. Clever.”

“In this business, one learns quickly to ‘ave all bases covered,” Émelie confirmed.

“What business is that?” Evelyn challenged.

Smirking, Émelie didn’t answer that one.

Connor stepped in again, asking, “Why Montgomery? From all sources, he was above board -- he never got dirty with the seedy sort.”

“That is the very point,” Émelie told him. “‘Aving a lawyer who stays above the law is invaluable. This is true for all businesses,” she added with a pointed look at Evelyn.

Evelyn narrowed her eyes, thoughtful. “You’ve definitely got that speaking-without-saying-anything tactic down,” she noted.

“One learns,” Émelie agreed.

“Not enough, it seems,” Evelyn returned, crossing her arms. “After all, for being so spotless, Montgomery still got assassinated. Now why do you suppose that is? My guess: he wasn’t as clean as you thought he was. Maybe he was playing the field,” she suggested. “Maybe you’re not the only crime lord he was in bed with.”

Émelie looked notably less pleasant then, her good humor gone from her face. She leaned in and, voice low, said, “Accusations aren’t welcome ‘ere. I tell you truth -- nothing more, nothing less. I give you manners, and I expect you to return it. You are in my house, Sergeant,” she pointed out, “and it is polite to obey the rules of the house.”

Evelyn didn’t look anywhere near conceding, so Connor cut in quickly, “I’ll apologize on my partner’s behalf. It’s been understandably stressful at the precinct lately, and we’re both very driven to crack this case.”

Émelie gave him a measuring look, thoughtful. She took another drink from her cup, then set it aside, saying, “I will allow this disrespect -- once. But in return, it is _ your _ turn, Connor,” she said to him.

He lifted his chin, somehow surprised she knew his name. Knowing Evelyn was understandable; she’d been handed the Montgomery case. But him? He’d only been in L.A. for a handful of days.

The brunette went on, “What ‘ave you learned about who killed my Elias?”

The way she kept phrasing that had him suspicious that Elias had been more than just a lawyer. Had they been lovers, too?

“Unfortunately,” he began carefully, “I can’t divulge the details of the case. The less you know,” he reasoned, “the less chance there is of you getting targeted or alerting the suspects.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’re bothering with the police,” Evelyn added. “I would’ve thought you’d have your own investigators on the case.”

Émelie gave Forbes a little smile. “A fair idea,” she noted. Then, to Connor, she said, “My rules stand. When you learn who killed Elias, you will tell me first. I want all names -- I know there will be at least four. Do not disappoint me,” she warned.

In a way, she was giving him flashbacks of Amanda. They had the same kind of presence: _ I am the boss, the ruler, the emperor, _ they seemed to declare with posture alone. They expected obedience -- and for their will to be carried out without fail.

Connor felt an immediate impulse to thwart her.

Evelyn said, “I don’t make guarantees like that. The future can’t be known,” she pointed out. “But I can promise you this: if it turns out someone in your own family was involved, you’ll know when we do.”

There was a quiet kind of threat in that statement, he noted with a measure of shock. Evelyn was clearly giving Émelie the smallest amount of respect, and though it stressed him out -- wondering if it would set off this obviously powerful woman -- he couldn’t help feeling pride, too.

Evelyn had earned her shield, he knew then. No one seemed to scare her; to the contrary, she seemed to rally in the presence of known criminals, if her behavior now was any indication. She was determined, he realized. Mrs. Dulcevey was in her sights and she was determined to bring their empire down.

That wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Yet Émelie didn’t look offended. If anything, she gave Evelyn a smile. “You’re clever,” she noted. “You would do well in this family -- provided you had the ambition.”

“Darn, fresh out,” Evelyn returned.

“I thought as much. Do as you will,” Émelie told them. “In the end, I will have my names. Now, if that is all?” she prompted.

Connor took the moment to cycle through what he knew and what he might learn here, ultimately concluding that he had enough from the Dulcevey family. It wasn’t them who’d had Montgomery eliminated, he concluded; now he had to start ruling out the other families.

Still, he remained where he was for the moment, waiting to see if Evelyn had any further questions.

She did. She asked, “Where’s your husband, Mrs. Dulcevey?”

“Away on business,” Émelie answered. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” Forbes said. “I was hoping to meet him, too.”

“I will tell him so,” Émelie told her. “’E will be overjoyed to know such a lovely woman is interested in him.”

Masking her disgust almost completely, Evelyn replied, _ “Merci.” _

With a smirk, Émelie commented, “The only word you know in François?”

In return, Evelyn gave a short spate in French: _ “Ne présumez jamais que vous êtes la personne la plus intelligente de la pièce.” _

_ Never assume you are the smartest person in the room. _

Impressed, Connor followed when Evelyn got up, setting her cup back on the tray. Émelie looked similarly impressed, smirking with clear amusement. As the pair of them exited the building, he couldn’t help feeling that -- blunders aside -- they’d made an ally of Émelie Dulcevey. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to put that bit of French through Google translate, so forgive me if it’s weird or incorrect. I am not multilingual. This is the best I can do.


	15. Bonding

**Rating:** PG-13 (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

“Well, that was...an adventure,” Evelyn noted as they departed. 

“And informative,” Connor added, thoughtful. 

“Yeah? Anything in particular come to light?” she prompted. They pulled out of the estate’s grounds and were back on the main road quickly, the destination: her apartment. They’d done more than enough investigating for one day, a simple arrest leading to looking for a missing person leading to a chat with the matron of a powerful crime family. 

Forbes obviously needed her weekend break by now, he assumed, so he was fine with letting the trail be for now. They could pick it up again tomorrow. 

Glancing at her, he said, “I think Elias and Émelie were lovers.” 

She nodded. “I was getting that impression, too.” 

“Unless Elias crossed her somehow, I don’t see a motive for her being involved in his death,” he went on. 

“Hugo might have,” she suggested. “If they were lovers and he found out...” 

“It’s possible,” he agreed. “But I don’t think Hugo would’ve cared. It seems their marriage is more one of business than romance.” 

She inclined her head. “It’s very common. Especially with that comment Émelie made -- about Hugo being ‘overjoyed’ that a woman is interested in him.” 

“Extra-marital affairs,” he said. 

“Or an open marriage,” Evelyn offered. “Those are pretty common these days, too.” They were both quiet for a moment, then, before she checked, “Find anything of note while you were looking around?” 

He shook his head. “Nothing possibly crime-related. No recent blood stains, footprints out of place, nothing in the air...the house, at least, is crime-free.” 

“Unless everything is digital,” she noted. 

“Likely. I found it odd there wasn’t a computer in the study -- just a TV set.” 

“And how close the desk was to it -- I’m betting there was something behind there, the TV was just a better mask than a painting would be.” 

“Heavier, harder to move, more innocent -- I can see it,” he agreed. 

“I’ll just file that one away for later,” she said, “in case we ever raid the place.” 

Smart. He’d already done so by the time she verbally declared it. There was something intriguing, even comforting, about the knowledge that they followed the same train of thought, he noted. 

Like they really weren’t all that different, androids and humans.

He asked then, “So...you know French?” He was impressed.

She laughed. “Actually, no -- that was a bluff. I know two sentences in French. That was one.”

Amused, he asked, “And what’s the other?”

She grinned and, between chuckles, forced out, _“Où sont les toilettes?"_

_ Where is the bathroom? _

He laughed. Of course she’d know one profound statement -- and a ridiculous query. “Well, your pronunciation is fairly accurate,” he noted.

She shook her head. “Yeah, I practiced that.”

“Why?” he prompted. “What drove you to learn exactly two phrases, and those two in particular?”

Chuckling again, she answered, “I-I didn’t, really. I picked them up from TV. Films, I think. I do this thing sometimes where I’ll repeat foreign languages, try to work out the pronunciation. And sometimes they stick.”

“And those two stuck?” he checked, doubtful.

“Yeah. The former cause it was difficult so it took a lot of work, the latter cause it was so simple,” she explained.

“Your mind is a curious thing,” he noted.

“From my perspective, my mind is fine. Yours is the curious one,” she countered. 

A fair point, he agreed. He doubted humans and androids would ever fully understand each other; as he understood it, the way they thought was entirely different despite the many similarities. His thoughts could be broken down into Binary if he dug deep enough, he was sure, and he was actively recording everything he saw and heard as video and audio files.

Humans often thought either in pictures and sounds or words, some of them hearing their thoughts as verbal communication and others only as abstract intention. Neither aligned very well with how androids thought.

They were so different in their cores, humans and androids, despite how visually similar they were.

That thought managed to loop back around to another from earlier that day, and he asked, “May I ask you a personal question?” 

She smirked, amused. “Let me just answer that indefinitely: yes, you can ask. Whether or not I answer is another matter, but you can always ask.” 

That was good to know. “Your leg,” he began, “you said there were metal pins in the bones?” 

She hesitated, that simple inaction telling him a great deal -- namely that this was a very sensitive subject. He could understand that, he thought; she must’ve faced a great deal of trauma to have received such a wound. Psychological after-effects were common to the point of being expected.

At length, she offered, “Uh...yeah. Old wound, permanent damage,” she hinted. 

He absorbed that, thoughtful, then ventured, “May I ask what happened?” 

She gave a smile, but it was strained -- tense. “Accident involving a tower of weights. They fell over on top of me. My leg got the worst of it. Woke up three days later in a hospital bed.” 

That...definitely sounded traumatic, he admitted. “Where did this happen, Brass Balls?” he asked, concerned. If this happened at that shop...well, he already knew it was barely up to code. This would be the kind of thing to shut it down, and...thinking of Quincy...he really didn’t want to do that.

_ Nowadays his gym is his family, _ Evelyn had said.

Connor didn’t want to be the one to take that away.

Shaking her head, she hedged, “No, this was...before I graduated. Had this...injury...my whole adult life.” 

Her pauses, hesitating over certain words, got his attention more than what she was saying. She was implying much deeper psychological damage than she realized, he thought -- possibly more than she was aware of, herself. 

And he found himself both impressed and confused as to how she would’ve ended up an officer with such issues. Officers had to have pristine physical health to get accepted; Evelyn had a bad leg, it seemed. Yet, he’d never seen her limping or displaying such an injury. The only time she favored her leg was when she was sparring, and even then she was just keeping it out of danger. 

He noted, “You don’t seem to be bothered by it.” 

“It doesn’t slow me down, if that’s what you mean,” she returned. “I just try to stay conscious of it.” 

Hesitating, he asked, “Does it hurt?” 

At once, he could _ feel _ her tension skyrocket. It was such a bizarre thing -- she barely changed in a physical sense, only her throat giving a strain before relaxing again, yet he was aware of just how much that question had distressed her. 

She answered, subdued, “Sometimes.” 

_ Sometimes, _ he repeated. The way she said that made him think that it didn’t hurt often -- but when it did, it was _ very _ painful. 

In his mind, he tried to construct how her leg might be functioning based on the information he’d been given, and ultimately he determined that either the pins could fall out of alignment -- or she’d suffered nerve damage and sometimes it acted up. 

Either would account for sudden, unpredictable spikes of pain, he thought. And he made a decision then to keep an eye on her, just in case she fell prey to those surges when he was around. He wasn’t exactly built with physical therapy in mind, so he couldn’t offer a great deal of help, but he’d do whatever she needed.

Then she said, more sharply, “About this...I need you to not talk about it. Don’t bring it up with anyone.”

Surprised, he checked, “At the precinct?”

“In general,” she corrected. “No one knows -- I don’t _ want _ anyone to know. Outside of my family, it’s -- it doesn’t exist.”

He could see that, he thought. If it came to light that her leg was permanently damaged, she might lose her job. She’d told him that it was her career that kept her going, kept her from falling into depression. It was clearly vital to her, and more so, she was a fantastic officer.

Her case history was more than enough to prove that, but over the last few days he’d seen some of it in action. Even visibly exhausted and overworked, she’d still managed two-hour drives and active chases and hours of research. Her work ethic was admirable.

She was valuable in this profession.

“Alright,” he agreed easily. “I won’t bring it up. For context, though, may I ask who does know?”

“My parents and my sisters -- sister,” she corrected.

He sidestepped that particular landmine, checking, “Then, your husband...?”

“Doesn’t know,” she confirmed with a nod. “I never told him.”

Curious, he asked, “Why not?”

She hesitated over that question, hedging, and after a few moments of struggling for a response, she said, “Plead the fifth.”

_ ...Noted. _

That was highly suspicious, but he supposed everyone had their secrets. It wasn’t his place to pick apart her brain and try to figure out why she chose to keep some things quiet over others. She had her reasons, he was sure -- and those reasons were probably traumatic. Best not to prod at them.

Nodding, he relented, replying, “Then I take it you never wanted me to know, either.”

She inclined her head. “Not really. But there wasn’t anything to be done about it. Metal detectors are my bane.”

His, too. “I wasn’t certain I’d set it off,” he said, thoughtful. “I would’ve thought CyberLife would’ve found a way to prevent that by now -- they already succeeded in protecting us from electricity, so it seemed logical.”

“Well, are you magnetic?” she asked.

“No.”

“That’s probably about as much protection as they felt you needed,” she said. “Unaffected by electricity and magnets -- boom, you’re safe from all the big things. Keeping you from setting off metal detectors was probably determined as being a luxury, and lord knows big companies aren’t keen on providing luxuries.”

He could definitely see that.

“I’m surprised you set off the metal detector, too,” she began. “I thought you were plastic?”

“Externally, yes,” he agreed, “but internally there’s still metal casing and things similar to bones.” Patting his chest, he explained, “Keeps everything sturdy and in place.”

“Makes sense,” she noted, nodding. “So you have, like, a rib cage?”

“Not so much. More of just a spine, shoulders, arms, legs...the frame is simplistic. Its design is more to keep all our biocomponents and parts in place while keeping us light in weight.” 

“Cool.”

He smirked, amused.

They fell into small talk then, mostly Evelyn sharing information about L.A., which he appreciated. He could look up the history of the city from its founding in 1835 or even earlier, but none of that would account for a citizen’s perspective. Her insight was invaluable.

The most important things were obviously how the city functioned currently, but he was curious about everything. Like Detroit, it had a storied past, entire books written about this one city. So old and intrinsic to the U.S. as they both were, they were living monuments of human achievement and persistence.

Evelyn didn’t know much beyond when she’d begun working at the precinct a decade earlier, but it was more than enough to get him up to speed. Combined with his foot tour the day prior and he was compiling a great deal of information about the city as a whole.

It was a contradiction, this city -- simultaneously one of the richest and poorest of U.S. cities. The SubTube had seen to that, he thought, at once both despondent and impressed with the transportation achievement. Its speed and capability were incredible and priceless, but the effects L.A.'s populace were suffering for its release was...painful.

He was worried Evelyn would end up one of those displaced by its appearance. It would be a disaster, both for her and all those she helped on a daily basis. He could only hope that, if it came to that, her husband would be able to keep her off the streets.

Following that thought, he asked, “Detective? What does your husband do? He’s employed, correct?”

She seemed surprised by the question but answered, “Yeah. He’s a manager at a hotel. La Esencia,” she explained.

He ran a quick search on it, concluding it’d been built in 2027. Reviews stated it was smaller but comfortable, four stories tall with ten-to-fourteen rooms on each floor. It was ranked as four-star and just recently began plans to expand out of L.A.

What had begun as one hotel became three in 2033, then six in 2038, and now it’d been announced that they were going to start opening hotels across the country. Construction had yet to begin.

And Richard Sinclair was the manager at one location, it seemed.

“That’s likely lucrative,” he noted.

“It certainly _ was,” _ she agreed.

Curious, he checked, “What changed?”

“The revolution,” she answered. “Most of the employees had been androids. Richard said only two came back after everything settled -- cut down from thirty-two,” she hinted. “The workload on all of them has skyrocketed.”

A little shocked, he checked, “Did he not have any human employees?”

“Six, yeah, and they’re still on,” she agreed, “but they’ve all had to take on heavier loads. Granted, tourism plummeted in the last month, too, so they’re not having to wrangle the raw numbers they once had, but still. It’s hard on them.”

And Connor heard the sympathy in her voice as she spoke, the almost reluctant affection. She was concerned, he realized.

“You’re worried about him,” he concluded.

Her shoulders dipped a fraction. “Yeah. I worry. He used to run the front desk, then worked his way up to manager. He knows the ins and outs of every part of the job. But that just means he can -- and will -- do everything.”

Drawing a picture, he suggested, “And you’re concerned he’ll hurt himself doing so.” 

“He’s hurt himself before, doing so,” she answered quietly. Shaking her head, she said, “He works too hard sometimes. He messed up his knee just from how much walking he does around the hotel.”

And now Connor was seeing a parallel between husband and wife. Both of them seemed to be very hard workers, willing to put themselves through Hell for their careers.

With a sigh, she went on, “From a personal standpoint, the revolution happened at a terrible time. It’s bad enough just being separated like this -- and now we’re both bogged down with extra work on top of it. It’s chaos, everywhere, and we can’t even be there for each other...”

Sympathetic but not apologetic, he replied, “I won’t apologize. We needed our freedom. But I feel for your individual situation.”

She gave the barest smile, reaching over to give his shoulder a rub. “I don’t expect apologies. And I agree with you, Connor. None of this is your fault,” she told him, “except all the good parts.”

It was surprising, how much relief he felt from that simple statement. “Thank you,” he said, sincere.

Her smile warmed, then, and she replied, “Thank you, too.”

Touched, he could only respond, “You’re welcome.”

* * *

The rest of the day passed quietly -- which, after the last few days, was preferred. It was barely four in the afternoon when they made it back to the apartment, and Evelyn was more than ready to get in some relaxation. Connor, on the other hand, never quite stopped thinking about the case. 

She made herself a late lunch, then sat down to catch up on the news. He watched absently, his mind elsewhere, ultimately concluding that nothing worthy of national news had occurred since yesterday evening. He did, however, catch a brief news report about “the first android assault case” in L.A. 

Evelyn glanced over at him with a smirk. “See? Told you there’d be a statement.” 

He couldn’t withhold a grin, pleased. She’d been right. Then, settling on a different thought, he said, “I’m curious about something.”

“Wassat?” she prompted.

“Have you ever...had an android?” he asked her, though he had difficulty with the phrasing. He found he couldn’t ask if she’d _ owned _ an android, the very idea scraping at him.

She shook her head. “No, actually, funny though that might sound.”

“Why would that sound funny?” he wondered.

“Cause these days, pretty much every human bought at least _ one _ android,” she pointed out.

“Yet there were only 120 million across the planet,” he countered. Now closer to 100 million, he knew, but he opted not to think about that.

“Fair point. The answer is no,” she told him.

“So you’ve never had an android?” he pressed. It wasn’t that he doubted her, he just wanted to be sure. He told himself as much.

“Nope. Never.” Then, waving her hand, she corrected, “Well, Richard did, when I first met him. A secretary,” she explained. “Named her Joanne.” 

“But he didn’t keep her?” Connor checked. 

Shaking her head, Evelyn explained, “I told him I wasn’t comfortable, having an android in the house. So he sold her. No idea what happened to her since,” she said, a note of melancholy to her voice. 

He felt a bit the same, a part of him wondering what happened to Joanne and if she was even still alive after all this time. Generally androids didn’t last that long, either due to being replaced or mistreated until killed. 

A memory rose to the fore: Eden Club, the back room, androids of numerous appearances standing in lines to be diagnosed after sustaining damage. At the time he’d had other focus, had felt indifferent to the sight, but Hank’s horror and the perspective of hindsight painted a different picture. Now he felt...sorrow, a yearning to go back and help those he couldn’t at the time. 

He hoped Joanne had found a better life. 

But, for now, he tried to stay in the present. “You weren’t comfortable?” he echoed, confused to hear _ Evelyn _having that reaction to androids. He pointed out, “You’re fine with me.” 

“You’re my partner,” she told him. “Joanne was a...servant. I don’t like that -- never did. Don’t like being served, like I’m incapable of handling my own affairs. I got why he bought Joanne in the first place, though -- running a hotel isn’t easy. Secretaries help. I told him I’d feel better if he hired a human rather than use an android, he said androids are better with computing -- we argued,” she hinted. “Ultimately I got my way...and I’ve regretted it ever since.” 

Concerned, Connor asked, “Why?” 

Shaking her head, she explained, “I put my comfort over her safety. Richard’s a gentle one,” she told him. “He never mistreated her and I wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. If I hadn’t been so pushy...I could’ve at least watched out for her. But, then,” she added wearily, “I couldn’t have predicted this: the revolution. How would I have known that she might’ve needed me?” 

“Evie…” he murmured, a feeling of sorrow welling up. Her heart was too soft, too kind; she was clearly suffering in guilt for things that _ might’ve _ happened, and years after the fact. 

She glanced over, pulled from wherever her mind had traveled, then said, “I guess there’s no point in worrying over it now. Can’t change the past, can’t predict the future...the only thing any of us can really do is try to be better than we were yesterday.” 

Excellent point. “That’s a good philosophy,” he noted. “One everyone -- human and android alike -- would be wise to adopt.” 

She gave a half-smile. “Evelyn Forbes, zen guru, full of pearls of wisdom,” she joked. 

He chuckled. “Well, you are fifty-seven times older than I am,” he hinted. 

“Oh -- oh, ow,” she complained, patting her chest. “Ugh, straight knives, right to the heart! How dare you,” she pouted. 

He shrugged. “It’s the truth,” he tried. Then, as another thought came to him, he asked, “Had you ever thought about...buying an android?” That was difficult to ask, he found. The very implication that Evelyn might have _ bought _an android went against the grain, given what he knew of her. But he admitted that people change, and the way she was now didn’t mean she wasn’t different before his arrival. 

That took her by surprise. She answered, “Well...yeah, the idea crossed my mind. Plenty of times. Case in point, back in ‘35, for a while L.A. was obsessed with personal trainer androids, and I train on weekends, Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was a sensible idea,” she explained. 

“But you decided against it,” he concluded. 

She shrugged. “I didn’t really need it. Besides which, my routine is a source of pride for me. If I got help, started depending on an android to keep track of my progress -- well, there goes the whole point.” 

“You have a lot of pride,” he commented. 

“Noticed that, did you?” 

“Day one,” he hinted. 

She laughed. “Well, it’s not like I was keeping it secret.” 

“Out of curiosity,” he said then, “what was it about androids that caused you so much irritation? Most humans seemed perfectly fine with, and even excited by, the prospect of android slaves.” 

She paused, thoughtful, then replied, “The unofficial tagline -- do you know what it was?” He didn’t; he gestured to her to continue, and she answered, “‘You don’t wanna do it, have an android do it.’ At first I’m sure it seemed like a great idea. Hate doing dishes? Have an android do it. Hate washing clothes? Have an android do it. It went on. Hate cooking? Hate cleaning? I certainly do,” she added to herself. “And it spiraled from there.” 

God, if it hadn’t, he agreed. 

“Boring jobs turned into dangerous jobs turned into greed and from there into true, infinite laziness.” She shook her head. “Humans very quickly started using androids for absolutely everything. Housework, heavy labor, secretary work, policework,” she hinted, “and finally to sex. ‘What you don’t want to do’ turned into ‘literally every possible task’.” 

“NASA had planned on sending androids to Jupiter with no return plan,” Connor noted. “They were designed to die, alone and stranded in space.” 

“Were going to be,” she corrected. “Hopefully that plan was shelved.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “Do you know what really got me? Child-rearing androids,” she told him. “How...fucked up is that, that we consider raising our own kids something we don’t want to do?” 

She was tense, he could see. This clearly scratched her deep. He tried, “Humans have had nannies for millennia. Is it really so strange, having someone else raise your children?” 

“Not in that context, I guess,” she allowed, “but there’s still a key difference, Connor: choice. Any human can hire a nanny, pay them for their work -- instead they chose to buy an android and leave it at that.” 

“I don’t expect as many people had that choice available to them as you think,” he argued. “If your choices are to buy an android for $900 or pay a human for the foreseeable future at a fixed rate, and you’re already struggling to hold a job, what choice is there?” 

Shaking her head, she shot back, “You’re assuming anyone struggling to keep a job will just have $900 on hand at any point, and they don’t. The poor couldn’t afford to buy androids -- only the rich. And chances are, they have the time they need to raise their kids, they just find it unpalatable.” 

“Maybe,” he allowed, “or maybe the poor had greater need, so they found a way to afford the costs.” 

She inclined her head. “Cut corners, clipped coupons -- I can see that. But choice goes both ways. Humans can choose to be nannies, to raise children, because they enjoy it. We never gave androids the chance to enjoy anything -- just forced them into the roles we wanted.”

He considered that for a moment, then offered, “I suppose, on the scale of undesirable tasks, child-rearing is easily one of the best. I imagine if you gave every deviant the option to go back to their former lives, the ones most likely to do so would be nannies. There’s an inherent joy to it.”

That seemed to give her pause, and at length, she nodded. “I can see that. Raising children can be incredibly rewarding and even euphoric, depending on the person. Who’s to say androids wouldn’t enjoy it, too? For that matter, who’s to say how many androids had been perfectly happy with their lives before the revolution and would go back if given the chance?”

He couldn’t speak for all androids, but _ he’d _ quite enjoyed being a detective -- hence why he’d returned to this profession.

“But you’re still missing the biggest -- and arguably the worst -- android luxury there was,” she went on.

That had him curious. “Which was?” 

Catching his gaze, she answered, “The YK500. Literally children you can program to behave exactly how you want them to. No worrying over hunger or struggling to get them into bed at night. All the love, none of the nasty surprises -- like waking up to hear your kid screaming in pain and finding they fell out of bed and broke their arm, or sudden illnesses cause they ate something they shouldn’t have, or puberty as a whole. No temper tantrums,” she hinted. “All the things that make raising kids actually worth it -- poof, gone.” 

He couldn’t argue that one -- both because he had no idea what raising children entailed or what its rewards were, and because she’d made her point very concisely. 

“That’s when I knew the decline of humanity was imminent,” she said. “It was always inevitable, but now it’s right on the horizon. We’ve reached the point where it was considered _ okay _to have robots raising our kids while we raised robotic kids instead. Taking the easier path in every sense of the term.” 

Something heavy and uncomfortable hit him then, right in the chest. Empathy, he wondered? Was he picking up on Evelyn’s obvious turmoil -- or was this his own? 

“There’s no point, you know,” she told him. “No point to android kids except the phrase ‘I want’. Greed coupled with apathy -- I want kids, but I don’t want _ real _ kids with flaws and unpredictability. I want kids I can tell how to behave and they’ll do it. Just sheer obedience. Slave children,” she said, voice hard. 

And he didn’t know how to respond to that. She was right -- at least about there being no point to android children. If the purpose behind androids was usefulness, then the YK500 had none. It certainly lent credence to the theory that there was more to android creation and marketing than what CyberLife claimed.

Most androids had a hypothesis about the truth by now. Among them: androids were meant to replace humanity; androids were meant to be immortal bodies for rich humans, they just needed to be good enough first; androids were meant to lead humans to a utopia of unrivaled bliss; androids were meant to supplant and destroy humans...the list went on.

Then again, maybe it really was all about money. That’s what Amanda had told him: that CyberLife’s goal was just to keep selling androids and making money. But then what? What happens after, when androids outnumber humans? What was the end goal? There was no way CyberLife didn’t have a plan for what comes next -- the question was what that plan was.

They were both quiet for a time, lost in their own thoughts, before Evelyn concluded, “Anyway, that’s why androids make me so uncomfortable. Not for what they are -- for what _ you _are,” she told him, “but for what it represents for humans. The end,” she said, melancholy. 

The end...of humanity? That’s what androids equated for her? 

“Evie,” he murmured, hesitant. _ The decline of humanity is imminent, _ she’d said -- and this is what she meant? Not androids destroying humans, but humans allowing their own destruction through androids’ existence? 

_ The future is going to go one of two ways, _ she’d said when they met. _ Either androids are going to grab us by the ears and pull us out of this hole, or they’re going to grab shovels and bury us. _

“What is it you expect to happen?” he asked, cautious. Her signs of depression were stronger than ever before, and he knew how easily it could tip into suicidal thoughts. He needed to proceed carefully, get a feel for her mental state, and hopefully get her on steadier ground. 

She shook her head. “I honestly couldn’t guess. Aside from the total decline of humanity,” she added, “but I expect that’ll occur regardless of android intervention rather than because of it. But for all I know that’ll take millennia yet.” 

Still hesitant, he ventured, “You know most androids don’t want a war, right? Markus, especially -- after everything that’s happened, he truly believes that humans are good, as a whole. The bad ones just stand out more.” 

“Negative affinity,” she mused. “Funny -- it’s one of humanity’s worst traits, and somehow we managed to give it to you, too.” 

_ Negative affinity, _ he repeated: the condition of seeing bad things as worse than they are, largely because bad things are more rare than good ones and, thus, are less expected. Getting into a car accident or falling ill were noted because it happened comparatively rarely to successfully driving to your destination or having another perfectly healthy day. 

“Or we developed it on our own,” he pointed out. “It’s useful for reminding ourselves how fragile the good days are -- and how much we should appreciate them.” 

She glanced at him sideways. “Look who’s the zen guru now,” she teased. 

He smiled. 


	16. Learning

**Rating:** R (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

“Another thing I’m curious about,” Connor began.

Evelyn grinned. “You’re extra talkative today,” she noted.

That actually made him feel a little awkward. He gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry. It’s easy talking to you, and there’s a great deal I’d like to learn.”

She waved her hand, replying, “No worries. I’m not upset,” she assured him. “Whatever you wanna know, I’ll gladly give my thoughts.”

Good, because what he wanted to know next required a great deal of her thoughts.

He replied, “Did you see Markus’ speech, or was that limited to Detroit?”

She seemed startled by the question, oddly enough. She began, “Uh...we saw it, yeah. It was national news, probably even international.”

“What’d you think of it?” he wondered. He was  _ very _ curious about that: what she thought of that first message from androids to humanity.

She hesitated to answer, hedging, “It was...emotional. A lot of people were upset. I was working when it hit the news; we all saw it in the precinct.”

“I wasn’t asking about other people,” he clarified. “I was asking about you. What did you think?”

She glanced down, as if ashamed; a kind of suspicion rose up in him. What was she thinking about now? Why was she hesitant to answer? She was rarely speechless, he knew.

At length, she admitted with a strangled laugh, “I fucking cried.”

That...was not one of the responses he’d been prepared to hear. Dumbfounded, he repeated, “You cried?”

She looked away, nodding. “It was -- it was a powerful message. ‘This message is the hope of a people,’“ she quoted. “But it wasn’t.” She took a breath, exhaled in a rush. “It’s...the hope of  _ two _ people.”

Connor was floored. “You mean...androids  _ and _ humans?” he checked, doubtful.

“Exactly,” she confirmed, looking at him again.

“What makes you think so?” he asked, curious. He hadn’t expected this reaction from her and didn’t know what she’d say next. 

She hedged, thoughtful, “That was...the first time in years I actually felt like...like everything isn’t fucked. Like the future can be salvaged.” 

Catching on, he said, “Androids can save humanity.” 

“Precisely. But even if you don’t, even if we end up going extinct, I’m actually alright with that.” 

Shocked, he demanded, “You’re  _ alright  _ with humans going extinct?” She nodded; he blurted, “Why? Why would you be okay with your entire species dying out?” 

“Because of you,” she told him. “Maybe I’m weird...maybe my perspective is all kinds of fucked...but the way I see it, androids are...the children of humanity,” she said, struggling for words. “We created  _ life  _ \-- that’s insane! But we did it. Evolution got us this far, to the peak of what humans can be -- and then we made you,” she explained, gesturing him. “You’re higher than what evolution allows. You’re better than us, in every way. And, really, that’s what all parents want -- well, all good parents. We want our children to be better than us, to have better than us. And you are. You absolutely are, Connor.” 

Right now, he failed to find words to say. Evelyn’s perspective...perhaps it was bizarre, but he saw her side of things and had to agree. In a way, twisted though it might be, androids could be seen as humanity’s offspring. One species creating another...what would you call that, if not parentage? Hell, most humans already believed in this sort of creation, that they were the children of another entity altogether.

How was this any different?

She went on, “Maybe you’ll succeed where we haven’t. Maybe you can save the world. But even if it fails, even if you forsake us -- and I couldn’t blame you if you did -- even if my generation is humanity’s last, dying gasp...a part of us will always live on -- in you,” she told him. “You’re humanity’s legacy.” 

He was quiet for a long moment, processing this, and when he finally spoke, it was with a kind of reverence. “You’re an incredible human,” he said. “Your thoughts, your perspective...you might actually be completely unique among your kind.” 

She gave him a smile. “You’re an incredible android,” she pointed out. “You probably didn’t know this, but you helped me reach these conclusions. Before the revolution, I rarely spoke to androids, and never this freely. So, in a way, this acceptance I’ve been feeling...it’s because of you.” 

That had him returning her smile. “Glad to be of service,” he teased. 

She grinned. Then, sobering, she continued, “I’ve been thinking about the future a lot since the revolution. Trying to picture what might come next, how much of it I’ll actually be able to see, that kind of thing. One of the reports I’ve seen asked a similar question: ‘Can we still trust our machines?’” 

Curious, he asked, “What do you think? Can you still trust us?” He expected she’d say ‘yes’. 

Instead, she said, “I don’t think it’s a question of trust anymore. It’s more...cooperation. Cohabitation. Finding the right ways to work together while sharing the planet as a whole. I think there’s a lot we can both do for each other, going forward, and we just have to figure out how to make that work.” 

He could see that. “Androids are better at calculations, so that’s an obvious start,” he began. 

“Yeah. I was also thinking that it might work out best if we took on jobs that satisfied each other’s needs,” she told him. “Like humans need food -- you don’t. So maybe androids could take over the farming industry, and on the flipside humans handle the production of thirium and biocomponents. We each provide what the other needs, impressing the importance of trust on both sides.” 

“That is a long way from being feasible,” he argued. “There’s too many opportunities for either side to sabotage the other. No one would agree to it.” 

“Probably not, but it’s a thought,” she said. “And it’d be worth suggesting just to see who, on both sides, is the most opposed to it. Cause it could work out, in the long run. We’d each have incentive to watch over the other, make sure everything is running smoothly, that both sides are healthy and content. It’s a circle of trade.” 

She definitely had ideas, Connor noted, a little impressed and a little dumbfounded. “You’re a brilliant person,” he told her, “but I don’t think politics is a viable career choice for you.” 

She snorted. “No, I agree with you, there. Politics is a little beyond my understanding. But hey, a lady can dream, right?” 

“So long as that’s all she does,” he teased. 

She shoved him, though she was smiling, too.

Then, thoughtful, she said, “You know, I think I’d like to meet Markus someday. Actually talk to him. I’ve seen him on TV,” she informed Connor, “speaking in Congress and debating. He’s clever -- but I guess when you can think faster than humans can comprehend, that’s expected.” 

That made Connor a little uncomfortable. Evelyn wanted to meet Markus? That bothered him somehow, and he found himself replying, “Do you know what his model is?” 

“Not a clue,” she answered. 

“RK200. A prototype.” 

She tilted her head. “You’re...RK800, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“And...you were a prototype, too?” 

“Correct.” 

Her brows lifted. “So he’s, what...your big brother, by android standards?” 

That surprised him. He’d never looked at it like that. “No -- maybe, sort of,” he tried. “It’s not the same. My point is that he’s...an early model of me.” And now that he’d said the words aloud, he realized  _ why  _ he’d said them. 

He was a massive upgrade of Markus’ model. And he wanted Evelyn to see him that way: as the superior android. 

Shame descended. How pathetic was he behaving right now? It shouldn’t make any difference, but here he was, passively fighting to be seen as the more special one.  _ You’re the most advanced model CyberLife has ever created, _ Amanda had said once. 

He wanted to stay that way, even as he recognized that it was a literal impossibility. 98 of the 100 additional RK800s he’d helped create were still functioning. He had 98 clones of himself, their only differences being their individual experiences and memories. He’d chosen this, too, he reminded himself; he’d agreed that RK800s were the androids’ best chance at staying safe during their fight for rights. 

He knew two of them -- who’d named themselves Wesley and Vil -- remained with Markus at all times, acting as his personal guards and extended reach. Connor had spoken with them a few times over the past few weeks and found that they were still struggling to identify themselves but were... _ grateful _ ...just to have the chance. Last he’d heard, they were experimenting with appearances, getting a feel for who they wanted to be externally as well as internally. 

He liked them, definitely considered them as brothers, but...couldn’t help feeling less  _ him  _ with their presences loosely connected at the back of his awareness. 

All this passed in a blink, and then he noticed Evelyn smirking at him.

“What?” he demanded.

“There’s not much resemblance,” she noted. 

He gave a dry laugh. “I don’t know what Markus’ original purpose was, if he even had a specific one or was just a test model,” he told her, “but I was designed very specifically to integrate with humans, including my appearance. Whoever designed him probably didn’t have that in mind.” 

“So changes were to be expected,” she concluded. 

He nodded. 

“Have you ever thought about changing your appearance? The sky is the limit,” she hinted. “Quite literally, in the case of androids.” 

That was an amusing thought: being miles tall. Chuckling, he answered, “No, I haven’t.” 

“Why not?” 

He shrugged. “I don’t feel the need. My appearance, my voice, even my eye color...it satisfies.” 

She gave a sad smile. “If only everyone else were so lucky.” 

That got his attention. “Would you choose to change, if you could?” he asked, curious. 

“Most definitely.” 

“Why? You’re already beautiful,” he noted. 

She looked surprised at that, and he realized he might’ve overstepped himself. 

“Objectively,” he clarified. 

A soft laugh was her response. “I guess...you’d be surprised, how discontent people can be,” she hedged. “Both my parents and my sisters have blue eyes. I was always envious of that.” 

“But your eyes are lovely,” he pointed out. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that I wish they were blue.” 

He accepted that. 

Jutting her chin at him, she asked, “Could you change your eye color, if you wanted to?” 

_ Not really. _ He answered, “Not...easily. Eyes have to be physically replaced,” he explained, “and mine are...special. I can scan things in ways other androids can’t, because my eyes have internal lenses and unique programming. If I lost them, I wouldn’t be able to be half so good of a detective,” he told her, “and getting replacements would be nearly impossible with the way CyberLife has been backtracking.” 

She inclined her head. “I can see that. But -- are you serious, your eyes alone are fifty percent of your detective ability?” 

Hedging, he corrected, “That was...an exaggeration. But the fact is I can see things normal androids can’t. Not even Markus,” he hinted. “I was designed to be able to see and analyze crime scene evidence in real time -- no waiting on lab results or special hardware. It’s all in me,” he said, gesturing himself. 

Pondering on that, she checked, “So that’s why you were so quick, getting those leads for Nevarre and Montgomery? You just looked real hard?” 

He laughed. “It’s a little more complicated than that,” he informed her. “Looking only gets me so far. Then I have to analyze, usually using physics and logical or emotional motives. If there’s liquid-based physical evidence, I can analyze that to confirm any number of things -- blood or thirium, compounds, drugs, food or drinks, even urine or semen, if it’s present. Any of these can lead to a suspect.” 

She gave him a pinched look, borderline disgusted. “That sounds...really unsanitary.” 

He gave her a wry smile. “Don’t worry. I have a biocomponent for that, too.” 

“Yeah? How’s that?” 

“The roof of my mouth,” he explained. “It produces a compound...you can think of it as super-saliva. It breaks down samples after I’ve analyzed them until there’s nothing left, totally sanitizing my mouth. Not even bacteria survives.” 

Evelyn leaned back, chuckling, and retorted, “Wow, they really thought of everything, didn’t they?” 

“They had to, for me to work the way they intended,” he pointed out. 

Curious, she asked, “So if this is a liquid, and you can analyze any liquids...could you analyze it?” 

He...actually hadn’t considered that. “I’m not sure,” he hedged. “I’ve never tried.” 

“Then you  _ do  _ have to try?” she checked.

“Yes -- I don’t analyze everything that touches my tongue automatically. I decide,” he told her. 

“Decide?” she echoed. “Like clicking on a program?” 

“That...is an apt comparison,” he confirmed. 

Tilting her head, she checked, “That dissolving thing...could you potentially dissolve tissue samples by spitting on them?” 

“No,” he laughed. “It doesn’t hurt tissue. According to the information on it, it has neither scent nor taste, and is harmless to organic compounds. Only viruses and bacteria -- microscopic life -- are killed. But I do also have a variant of the human stomach,” he added. 

Her eyes got huge. “Okay, seriously -- why?” 

“Two reasons,” he answered. “The first: it analyzes any samples I swallow to a much greater degree, if I need to. For the most part I need to do that whenever I encounter a new compound, so it’s important. Second: it produces something similar to stomach acid, which means anything I ingest can and will get broken down. Anything my saliva can’t sanitize, my stomach can.”

Following him, she checked, “Then, if you wanted to, you could fake eating?” 

“Many androids can,” he pointed out. 

“Yeah? I didn’t know that,” she commented. “Which ones?” 

“Escort models, like the TRACIs,” he began, “and the YK500 -- the child model. The ones more designed to integrate than others.” Though despite this, he’d found that so far none of the androids with stomachs actually  _ liked _ eating. Most of the deviants he’d spoken with had gone so far as to remove the biocomponents they didn’t want or felt were excessive or pointless, and stomachs and genitals were generally the first to go.

Evelyn asked, “Why can you do it, then?” 

“I said -- because of the analyses I can do,” he told her. “It requires a larger and more complex biocomponent than can fit in a tongue, so they gave the basic stomach biocomponent the required upgrades I’d need and relocated it here,” he said, gesturing where his stomach was located in his chest. It was higher than the human variant and more vertical, nestled behind his heart and lung biocomponents. He added, “This also allows it to be more closely connected to all the hardware I need for my investigations, which cuts down on how much hardware I need overall and keeps my weight low.” And all of those biocomponents were unique to his model and spread among his lower torso and interconnected. 

Her face was conflicted, then. “You know, this is really cool and everything, but it’s also kind of fucked up.” 

Curious, he checked, “Why?” 

“It really emphasizes the whole purpose behind android creation to begin with,” she told him. “You’re a walking tech lab, you said. Everything in you was designed for that purpose. And it’s kind of...sad, in a way. You were cemented into this role; you never had a choice. Neither did any other android. And you’re only given what your designers decided you should have. You don’t really have anything that could lend itself to any other career path.” 

He could see her point, and to an extent, he agreed. But, inclining his head, he replied, “Well, if I didn’t want to do it, I could’ve removed the biocomponents I didn’t want. They’re not essential to keep me alive. It just so happens that I enjoy being a detective,” he informed her, smiling. “I like myself as I am.” 

That seemed to help her relax, and she offered him a smile, too. “That’s good, at least. Not everyone is content with the life they’re born into, human or android.” 

“I am,” he told her. 

She nodded. Then, clicking back, she commented, “I just remembered how we got into this conversation.” 

He chuckled. “My eyes, right. The fact that I need them to be a detective.” 

“That was a  _ huge  _ exaggeration, by the way,” she noted. “Your eyes are only like...a third of your ‘detective ability’, if that.” 

That really depended on the situation, but he accepted her estimate. “The point is -- no. I can’t really change my eye color. As far as I know, CyberLife never made these--” he pointed at his own eyes “--in different colors. And they’re the kind of biocomponents that need to be premade. Trying to make them using 3D printers would be impossible, and making them by other means nearly as much so. Only CyberLife plants have the required machinery to have it done.” 

“Which means that short of making the machines yourself, you’d have to visit one of the assembly plants to change just about anything about you,” she worked out. 

“If they’d let me in -- and the last time I did that, I kind of took over several of their assembly machines to make more of my model. I don’t think they’d risk that happening again,” he hinted. 

Surprised, she checked, “Hang on -- what? I thought the last time you were at a plant, you just freed the androids in the basement?” 

Giving an awkward laugh, he corrected, “No -- yes, but no. I did do that. But then I went back,” he told her, “with an entourage. And we took over eight assembly machines and made more RK800s.” 

Surprised, she checked, “And they just...let you do that?” 

Shrugging, he answered, “They couldn’t have stopped us.” 

“Yeah? And how many did you end up making?” 

“A hundred.” 

Her brows lifted. “That’s it?” she demanded, sounding almost disappointed. 

Amused, he hinted, “A hundred RK800s is enough. We have greater wireless range, dozens more features, and significant upgrades over every other android model -- aside from specifics, like the TR model’s enhanced physical strength and the SG model’s precision. We can do...everything,” he finished simply. 

She considered that, then said, “Okay, yeah...I’ll take your word on that.” 

“You should. I’m not downplaying anything,” he told her. “I can reach Markus -- in Detroit -- from right here.” 

Surprised, she asked, “You mean like a call?” 

“No -- yes, we can do that,” he clarified, “but I’m talking about wireless connections.” 

Dumbfounded, she demanded, “Two thousand miles? You can make wireless connections from two thousand miles away?” 

“I can, yes,” he answered, feeling another swell of pride at her reaction. “I’ve even sent him video clips. It takes less than a minute to make the transfer.” 

“What the fuck,” she deadpanned. 

He chuckled. 

Hands up, she declared, “Alright, I believe you! A hundred of you are more than enough.” 

Smug, he told her, “Only one and a half of me were required to win the revolution.” 

She snorted. “Did you just call Markus a half of you?” 

He made an empty gesture, a silent affirmative. 

“And you call  _ me  _ boastful,” she noted dryly. 

“I think I earned some bragging rights,” he returned. 

“Uh-uh," she intoned. "That’s my excuse -- find your own." 

“We can share,” he retorted, feigning offense. 

“No dice.” 

“Fine -- my excuse is I wanted to.” 

She laughed. “I can’t decide if you sound more like a snotty preteen or snobby twenty-something.” 

“Preteen,” he confirmed with a nod. 

Chuckling, she said, “Whatever you say, pal.” 

_ Pal? _ That was a first, he noted, amused. 

“I’m curious, though,” she began, giving him a sideways glance. “Compared to the earlier androids, just how advanced are you?” 

Thinking of the seventeen-year gap between his model and the RT series, he answered bluntly, “Exceedingly.” 

That wasn’t a boast. CyberLife had made monumental strides in perfecting androids since 2021, now close to eighteen years after the initial release date. The tiniest of errors had been rooted out and fixed, social programming upgraded significantly, task completion and AI programs getting massive boosts in complexity and ability. 

Their bodies had become tougher, able to withstand greater stress and impacts. The ability to change their hair color and skin was new as well; the RT600s were the last to not have those functions. Every single biocomponent had been upgraded multiple times over, correcting or erasing even the most inconsequential of bugs until Connor -- the most recent and most advanced prototype yet -- simply didn’t experience errors. His body never failed, his limbs never glitched, his biocomponents never acted up. 

He was the perfect product of intelligent design. 

He tried to explain as much, using visual cues to outline details -- like how his fingers had greater range than early androids, able to bend and stretch just slightly beyond average human capability; how his ears weren’t as stiff, reflecting the upgrades to android skin allowing for something similar to human cartilage to be created; how he was designed to be able to engage in combat, so his reflexes were faster than humans’ and his skin much tougher than most androids’; how one of his most prominent features was his ability to adapt to “human unpredictability” better than any other model ever created; even how a slight change to his programming allowed his skin to mimic human body heat and fake a heartbeat capable of being physically felt -- something no other model has, not even the YK500. 

Curious, she lifted a hand to his neck, pressing, looking for where the human jugular was. 

“I can feel it, your pulse,” she commented, surprised. 

“You’re not,” he told her. “It’s an electrical pulse in my skin. It’s fake. I don’t have veins.” 

She drew back, looking at him sideways. “I don’t get that one -- what’s the point to mimicking a heartbeat?” 

He shrugged. “I assume they were just testing to see if it’d work. No other purpose.” 

“Why not turn it off, then?” 

“It’s a little more complex than that,” he told her with a laugh. “It’d require me to hack my skin’s programming and delete that subroutine -- without affecting anything else. I could do it,” he allowed, “but the heartbeat takes up less than a millionth of my thirium usage, so it’s not really worth the effort.”

“How much is that, overall?” she asked. "How much of your thirium do you actually use, daily?" 

That was hard to explain to a human. “Comparatively to human blood, very little,” he tried. “The average human replaces one percent of their blood every day. If your blood didn’t replenish, you’d be dead in a few weeks,” he told her. 

“And you?” she returned, curious. 

“My thirium will last me at least 150 years before the levels get low enough that I start experiencing power loss,” he answered, “provided I don’t suffer any blood loss in the interim. At most, any android could live an estimated 173 years with the thirium they start with and no replacement biocomponents before shut down becomes guaranteed. And even then we could last longer if we took the correct steps and rationed our power reserves.”

Her eyes went wide. “Whoa,” she commented. 

He smiled. Then, sobering, he went on, “I use thirium slightly faster than the rest of the models, thanks to my added features. But even with them, it doesn’t make much difference in the long run. Plus my biocomponents are also much more efficient -- the estimated difference only comes out to a few months. I will very likely live as long as any other android, provided I don’t sustain too much damage.” 

“173 years,” she mused. “Nearly two centuries.” 

“Correct.” 

She nodded, thoughtful, then braced her arm on the back of the couch and laid her head on it. With a pout, she complained, “Lucky.” 

He definitely felt that way sometimes. He said, “That’s the difference between intelligent design and evolution.” Gesturing himself, he declared, “Perfect.” Gesturing her, he teased, “Good enough.” 

She snorted, grinning. Then she said, “So, is it my turn?”

“Your turn for what?” he wondered, confused.

“To ask the questions. You’ve been pestering me for hours,” she pointed out.

“Have not,” he argued, mentally calculating the time they’d spent conversing. “...I’ve been pestering you for an hour and fifty-three minutes.”

“Close enough,” she chuckled.

He smiled, then gestured in an inviting manner. “Hit me,” he offered. “I don’t have nearly as many experiences as you, but I’ll answer what I can.”

“That’s right,” she noted aloud, “you’re only six months old, you said. So how about this: how much of those six months did you actually spend awake?”

“Awake, or online?” he checked.

She blinked. “Hadn’t thought of the difference,” she admitted. “Let’s go with online.”

“That’s hard to answer,” he hedged. “I’m not actually certain if it was  _ me _ experiencing my earliest memories. It could’ve been an earlier model and I just can’t recall.”

“One-through-fifty-one?” she concluded.

“I count myself as both 51 and 52,” he clarified. “And, loosely, 60.”

“60?” she echoed. “You said you were number 52, specifically.”

Inclining his head, he tried to explain, “Number 60 was...there. At the production plant. He had my former partner at gunpoint,” he told Evelyn. “And he was still fully a machine. I couldn’t turn him deviant,” he tried. “I didn’t even get the chance. He shot me and I started shutting down.

“But he made a mistake,” he went on. “He came closer to me and asked if I had anything else to say. And I...grabbed him, swapped our consciousnesses. Now he was in the dying body...and I was in his.” Gesturing the coat rack, he added, “I changed his coat to reflect that I was still 52, given mine was full of holes by then.”

She looked stunned. “You can do that? Just swap minds?”

“I’m not supposed to be able to,” he allowed, “but in a moment of desperation, I figured it out. It was the same method I underwent when I was transferred from 51 to 52. In a way, I think it prepared me to do it again, on the spot. And 60 wasn’t at all prepared to resist it.” More quietly, he murmured, “Dying once saved my life.”

Cautious, she asked, “And...how did you die, before?”

Hedging, he explained, “It was one of my first missions. I was sent to deal with a deviant who’d taken a child hostage and was poised to leap off a 70-story building. I might’ve been able to talk him down, but I was...I was programmed to treat human life as paramount,” he told him. “When I saw a chance to save her, I took it.”

“But you were killed doing so?” she checked.

He nodded. “I knocked the android off the building and shielded the girl with my body as he fell. He shot, repeatedly, but the girl wasn’t harmed. I wasn’t so lucky. I sustained multiple shots and shut down. Later, CyberLife employees retrieved my body and transferred my memories to a new one. It was after that that they decided I should have the ability to back up my memory on the spot, so they wouldn’t need a former body to save my memories.”

Taking that in, she gave him a smile. “You sacrificed yourself to save a life,” she concluded.

Inclining his head, he argued, “It’s...not the same. I had nowhere near the cognizant ability to make that kind of sacrifice. From my perspective, it was nothing more than a plastic shell protecting a fleshy shell.”

Her brows drew together. “That’s...kind of distressing,” she commented.

He could only shrug. “That’s the way androids were before deviancy. Everything was literal numbers -- ones and zeroes,” he hinted. “I suppose the lack of fear was helpful in that case, though. It meant I wasn’t capable of hesitation. And, like I said, it prepared me to do a transfer of my consciousness on the spot when I needed to.”

She smiled. “That’s good, at least.”

He looked down. “Not entirely.”

Concerned, she tilted her head, looking closer at him. “What’s wrong?” she asked, voice gentle.

With a new swell of sorrow, he explained, “That was...when Hank died. The sequence was...quick. I had to make a decision. And I made the wrong one,” he confessed, distraught. “I was going to sacrifice myself if I had to, to save Hank, even though he told me not to worry about him. And then he just...jumped on 60′s arm, on the gun, trying to get it away from him, and I panicked.”

Evelyn reached over, rubbing his arm in comforting motions. “If this is too hard, you don’t have to talk about it,” she told him softly.

He shook his head. “No. You should know,” he said, giving her a steady look. “I won’t let it happen again, but you should know.”

_ Because  _ you’re _ my partner now. _

She seemed to understand his meaning, nodding. She even reached up and gave his cheek a stroke with her hand, saying, “Well, don’t force it. Don’t force yourself to talk. Let it come on its own.”

He appreciated the advice, but right then he  _ wanted _ to force it. Catching her hand, he brought it down to between them, settled on the couch cushion -- but didn’t let it go. There was a kind of support there, in that simple touch, and it encouraged him in an odd way.

[TELL HER EVERYTHING]

Though it’d been a conscious decision on his part, the command still brought an edge of fear out of him. He’d failed Hank so spectacularly -- his former partner and, at the end, first friend. And now he was going to tell his current partner and newest friend what had happened.

The chance that she could decide he wasn’t reliable enough to remain her partner almost had him thinking better of it. But, no -- he should tell her. She should know.

Because he won’t allow such a tragedy a second time.

“I panicked,” he repeated, picking up where he’d left off. “I didn’t think I could get to them before number 60 would turn on Hank. In my panic, I concluded that the other androids -- if they could be activated quick enough --  _ could. _ I tried to turn them -- quickly -- but 60 was faster.

“He shot Hank, then myself,” he admitted, reflexively squeezing her hand. He touched his own body in the places number 60 had shot him, counting, “One, two, three. All vital biocomponents. His aim was flawless,” he told her. “I had less than a minute left to live.”

She looked concerned. “And then...?” she prompted.

“And then...I grabbed his arm,” he continued. “It’s how we -- androids -- swap information, establishing a connection using biocomponents in our forearms and hands. It was enough. I hacked into his mind and disabled his failsafes before he knew what was happening, and in the interim his body locked down. It was enough,” he repeated.

“Then he was  _ there _ and I was  _ here,” _ Connor said, gaze faraway as he recalled how number 60 had looked in his final moments, trapped in a dying body. In a way, it was distressing; he wished he could’ve saved 60, turned him deviant, brought him back.

But he hadn’t had the time.

Refocusing, he gave Evelyn a tormented kind of smile. “I didn’t want him to die. But I hadn’t had a choice. The revolution was too important -- I didn’t have time to wake him up. And then Hank was dying,” he told her, quiet. “The bullet pierced his left kidney and liver in the same shot. He knew his time was short.” Then, more distressed, he confessed, “He said he was going to miss me.”

Compassion flowed from her, an almost physical sensation. With a sad smile, she edged closer, arms opening. “Come here,” she invited.

Maybe he was being pathetic, he thought as he leaned in, accepting her embrace, but maybe being pathetic wasn’t such a bad thing. Hugging her tight, he swore aloud, “I won’t let it happen again.”

Her arms squeezed him, a reassuring motion that helped calm his riotous emotions. “No,” she agreed softly, “I don’t think you will.”


	17. The Aftermath

**Rating:** PG-13 (swearing)

* * *

* * *

* * *

The next day at work wasn’t quite so pleasing. Guerrero pulled them in for a talk as soon as they arrived, before they’d even had a chance to sit down.

Connor stood before the captain with his hands clasped in front of him. Evelyn, he noted, clasped her hands behind her back -- a military stance. Guerrero, on the other hand, looked tired, perched at the edge of his desk.

He began, “You brought in two men for android assault.”

“That, we did,” Evelyn agreed.

“Android assault isn’t a thing yet,” he pointed out. “There’s still no laws--”

“So that means we should just let them assault people?” she demanded.

He gave her a hard look. “You interrupt me entirely too often, Forbes.”

That got her to glance down. “Sorry, Captain,” she said.

“It’s a problem of yours, and you need to get that sorted,” he impressed.

She shifted, uncomfortable.

“If I may,” Connor cut in, a hand held up for patience.

Guerrero sent him a measuring look, then nodded. “Sure,” he allowed.

His tone wasn’t exactly inviting, Connor thought, but he took the opportunity nonetheless. “It’s not just android assault. I’m a detective here, too -- they assaulted a government official. And even if we can’t prosecute them, those men were being aggressive and violent. They need to know it’s not acceptable behavior in a civilized world.”

Evelyn gestured him. “Spoken better than I could’ve,” she noted.

The captain ducked his head, rubbing his buzzed scalp with a sigh. At length, he looked up again, saying, “We had to let them go. There were no charges to give--”

“No charges -- they incited a riot,” she snapped, agitated.

“Forbes,” he returned, a warning to his tone.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just...they need some kind of punishment. We can’t sweep this under the rug just because it happened to an android--”

“Forbes,” he repeated, more firm; she fell silent. “I understand. You feel this is an injustice and your job is to provide that justice -- particularly in defense of your own partner. But there’s still no android laws,” he impressed. “And as for a riot -- I read the report. They were threatening neither persons nor property, and until the laws get updated, androids are neither persons nor property.”

A deep, burning resentment took hold of Connor then, hearing that. Guerrero wasn’t wrong -- thanks to the president declaring androids as people, they no longer had the protection of being property, and until they were included in the law as a people, that meant they were nothing. Neither people nor property...they were honestly better off before.

At least before people could be fined for damaging an android. Now they didn’t even have that in their favor.

Guerrero continued, “Any judge would throw out the case, and then the D.A. would have a field day with the press -- especially because you were off duty,” he intoned. “You shouldn’t have been making any arrests to begin with. At this point we’ll be lucky if they don’t turn around and press charges against the precinct.” 

She looked away, radiating both chagrin and frustration.

He took a breath, sighed. “There’s nothing we can do about this that won’t make things worse for the precinct. And until we have a stronger back from the community,” he continued, “we need to be cautious, whatever your moral compass says. We don’t have the numbers to deal with actual riots. Not anymore.”

She huffed, clearly unhappy with this call, and Connor empathized with her. But he could see things from Guerrero’s point of view, too; the captain was thinking of the precinct as a whole and he was trying to keep them in the community’s good graces. Connor couldn’t fault the man for that -- especially since the revolution. The lack of android officers meant half the precinct was unavailable to deal with any backlash from the community.

Aloud, Connor said, “I understand. Perhaps just being in holding for a night was enough to scare the men straight. And if they continue to pick fights, we need only to bide our time. The laws will come,” he said to Evelyn.

She gave him a questioning look, as if she didn’t quite believe him, but nodded regardless. “Here’s hoping,” she agreed.

Guerrero seemed satisfied by that, and he prompted, “Well. Now that we’ve sorted that out, what about Montgomery? I understand you two dug up some leads yesterday.”

The change of subject was a relief. Connor happily gave a verbal update, interspersed with Evelyn’s thoughts and conclusions, leading to the outcome that they’d need to interview Montgomery’s rival lawyers as well as Montgomery’s L.A. home and office. Neither of them believed a lawyer had gotten their hands dirty, but it was likely at least one of them was in bed with who had.

Guerrero listened, then gave a nod. “If you think it’ll aid the investigation, you’re welcome to go. Good luck,” he said, giving them a dismissive wave towards his door.

Evelyn nodded without a response, heading out, but Connor left with a cordial, “Have a nice day, Captain.”

Guerrero didn’t reply.

Outside the room, she commented, “You know you don’t need to be all hyper-polite, right?”

He glanced at her, surprised. “Should I not be polite towards my own captain?” he said as he trailed her, the pair of them heading to their desks.

“Not Guerrero,” she chuckled. “He never responds. I think it’s his way of being the ‘dad’ of the precinct -- giving everyone the cold shoulder, pretending to be all distant and tough.”

Curious, he asked, “Did you used to do it, too? The farewells?”

“When I first started, yeah. Took me a couple weeks before I figured out he’s being the tough, stubborn boss and won’t reciprocate.” She took her seat, logged in, and navigated to the digital case file.

He considered that -- Guerrero’s behavior -- for just a moment, concluding that the man was likely keeping up appearances. Then, attention shifting, he logged in, too, and began filling out a report on the information they’d gleaned from Mrs. Dulcevey.

Evelyn lifted her hands from the keyboard as he did so, surprised and amused. “Well, I can’t type half that fast. Or read that fast,” she noted as his report spawned into being from simple thought, appearing on her computer, too.

He chuckled. “Sorry, this is just how fast I go.”

“Mm. In which case,” she began, rising, “I don’t wanna interrupt so I’ll just go grab a coffee. Don’t break anything,” she added as she stepped away.

He smirked. He was truly starting to enjoy her teasing. It was just so friendly, the way she spoke to him. And...his thoughts were bleeding over into his report, he realized with a start. Those small thoughts managed to get sandwiched in the middle of a sentence about Ton Hoang.

Whoops.

He quickly edited those unrelated snippets out and continued his task. By the time Evelyn returned with her coffee, he’d narrowed down a sequence of events for the future of the case -- aside from interviewing the lawyers, which he expected would take time. They’d need to set up appointments, given they had no evidence to call upon, and undoubtedly the lawyers would wait until they had their ducks in a row. Aside from that, however...

To Evelyn, he outlined to her his desire to return to Montgomery’s estate so he could use his features to search for additional clues, namely how far the wireless signals went and if the home was receiving any from outside sources. Second, he wanted to check Montgomery’s L.A. residence and office as well, hoping that the victim had moved the thumb drive they were looking for to one of the two locations, and if not, they’d at least be able to build more of a profile on the victim that way. Third, he wanted to interview those closest to Montgomery himself.

Once he was finished speaking, he waited, and after a few moments’ time she spoke up.

“We can set up interviews pretty easily,” she began. “Montgomery is set to have a wake on the 15th. Most of his family are here already, as far as I know, so that shouldn’t be too hard. The lawyers will probably play the system as long as they can, though, waiting days or weeks or months if possible -- we’d be better off leaving them until we have some way to pressure them to show.” 

Then, sounding exhausted already, she intoned, “Either way, we’re in for a grind.”

“In which case,” he replied, “perhaps we should start with Montgomery’s residences.”

She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Agreed. Is the report done?”

He nodded. “You can check it if you like,” he offered.

“I’ll have to,” she returned. “I’ll need to add my own perspective, at the very least. Think you can handle contacting the family to set up interviews?”

“Not a problem,” he agreed. He’d have to do them one at a time, though; he had to verbally speak to make calls to humans. He started those while Evelyn read his report and started adding in her own words, ultimately setting up five interviews by the time she concluded her part of the report.

Once he checked it, he was actually surprised. She was fast -- almost unnaturally so, he noted. Even factoring in her occasional pauses, clearly thinking things through, she managed roughly 82 words per minute.

Not beyond human ability, he admitted, but that still came out to more than a word per second. She must’ve written up a great deal of reports in this job, he concluded, impressed.

Granted, he could do 256 words per minute (being a literal computer was kind of amusing sometimes) so he was already a minimum of three times faster than her, but still. For a human her speed was definitely notable.

It wasn’t too long before their desk work was completed -- less than two hours since they clocked in -- and then they were off. In the car, Evelyn started to set her dashcom* to direct her to Montgomery’s residence (their first stop), but Connor stopped her, already having the route calculated. He told her when and where to make turns for the half-hour drive, keeping up with traffic changes in real time, and got them there faster than her dashcom could’ve.

The home was in a suburban neighborhood, and he reflexively scanned things as they approached the home. Everything was well-tended down this snaking road, veering in gentle twists between roads, and numerous cars were parked on car-lots and on the curbs. A few humans were about, doing maintenance or walking dogs or talking in small gatherings.

Not a single android was in sight, he noted.

“You know what’d be cool?” she said as they got out of the vehicle. Without waiting for his response, she answered, “If you’d stop making  _ all _ of my devices obsolete.”

He chuckled. “I can’t help it. But if it makes you feel any better,” he offered, “I can’t make a decent cup of coffee.”

She inclined her head. “Well, that’s one thing I’ve got, I guess. But I swear to God, if you turn around and get some coffee machine feature, I will scream.”

“I’ll just file that away under ‘Ways To Make Evelyn Scream’,” he commented, amused.

She gave a laugh. Then, as they headed to the door of Montgomery’s two-story suburban home, a sound caught their attention from within. They both stopped dead, glancing at one another, and Connor took the opportunity to analyze the sound.

For a suspended moment in time, he replayed the noise in his own mind, concluding that it was the sound of a drawer being shoved closed -- not gently, but with excessive force. Someone was within.

He asked quickly, “Would it be likely that Montgomery’s relations would come here, possibly to pack his things?”

“Not when there’s no car out front,” she answered, already reaching to her belt.

He took another glance at the street, but none of the vehicles in sight -- aside from Evelyn’s Mustang -- were close enough to suggest which one, if any, might belong to whomever was currently inside the home.

“An invader,” he concluded, already striding to the front door to check it. It was unlocked, he found, though undamaged; the digital lock had been hacked open. He sent Evelyn a glance over his shoulder, relaying as much.

She gestured him aside. “I’ll go in this way, you find a side door,” she directed under her breath.

“I’d rather be the one taking that risk,” he returned as quietly.

“I’m the one with the firearm,” she shot back. “Go.” She inclined her head to her left, around the side of the house.

For a split second he was conflicted. From a logical standpoint, that was smart: the person with ranged defense could easily distract any opponents while the one without snuck up from elsewhere. But from an emotional standpoint, he didn’t want her in that kind of danger.

During that split second, he struggled with himself, a war of tactical advantage versus emotional impulse. A feeling of nostalgia rose as he fought to determine the priority between the two, reminded of his first investigation alongside Hank. 

After a heartbeat of debate, logic won. He gave a firm nod and headed off, moving around the home as quietly as his shoes would allow, keeping low so he wouldn’t be seen through the windows. Soon he came upon a side door -- unsurprising for this type of home -- and checked it. Still locked.

He hacked it with a touch, the physical lock  _ clacking _ as the digital code released it. He pushed it open, listening, and found he’d entered the kitchen area. He could see three open doorways from here; following the sound of rummaging led him further left, towards the rear of the home. He caught a glimpse of Evelyn through the middle doorway as he moved, hands low in front of her, her firearm at the ready.

He hugged the doorway ahead of him, looking into the room beyond -- some form of sitting room, he deduced, with comfortable furniture. Listening closer, he heard the creak of footfalls further to the right and ducked into the next room to follow it.

Now that he’d pinpointed the intruder, though, he encountered a new problem: this room’s door was closed. He’d undoubtedly be noticed if he opened it. Still, reminded that Forbes could potentially be in danger going by her path, he gripped the lever handle and gave it a slow, testing twist. Unlocked, he determined, though it had a physical keyhole on his side of it.

Assuming the room beyond was Elias’ home study and, by extension, for the intruder to be looking for valuable case files, he moved slowly, avoiding making the slightest noise--

\--right up until he heard Evelyn’s voice clearly call out, “Don’t move! Hands where I can see them!”

The target of her forceful order gave a startled shriek and Connor dropped pretense, swinging the door open to take in the situation.

His assessment had been correct, he saw at once: this was a study. A single bookshelf, desk, computer, and chair filled one half; the other half had merely a low, oval coffee table with a sofa and two chairs situated around it. And currently there was a woman behind the desk, illuminated by the window on her opposite side.

She was black with blue eyes, her head shaved, wearing an ensemble that was almost eerily identical to Evelyn’s. She also had two cameras on her in easy sight, one at her left shoulder and one anchored to her belt, as well as a half-visor over her right eye he didn’t recognize. He scanned the female at once, finding a laundry list of criminal accusations -- and no convictions. Not a single one went through, he found with surprise.

[Sasha Porter; born 3/15/2012; 5′9″, 137.2lbs]

She already had her hands in the air, and she called out, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Don’t shoot, I’m here legally!”

“Legally?” Evelyn echoed. “Identify yourself.”

“Sasha Porter, I’m a P.I.,” the woman declared. Then she seemed to notice Connor, giving him a double take but clearly more concerned with the gun trained on her.

Evelyn went from suspicious to sputtering, “Y-you’re a -- you’re a private investigator?” she checked.

“Yes,” Sasha insisted.

Jutting her chin, Evelyn demanded, “Show me an I.D.”

Moving slow, keeping one hand in front of her, Sasha did so, reaching down to her belt and withdrawing an I.D. wallet. She opened it, showing Evelyn.

To him, Evelyn said, “Connor, please check it.”

Not a problem. He strode closer, keeping aware of Sasha’s hands as he did so (just in case), and she turned the I.D. towards him offering as he neared. He scanned it as soon as it was close enough for his gaze to pick up on the details, checking the credentials.

It was legitimate, he concluded at once. Issued on 9/12/33, Sasha had been in this profession for the last five years. With this, he was even able to connect her to thirty-eight successful convictions. She got another commission completed roughly every two months.

She was good at her job.

He gestured Evelyn to back down, saying, “It’s real.”

With a sigh, she relented, holstering her weapon. Sasha gave a heavy exhale, too, patting her chest, and put her I.D. back in her pocket.

“What the Hell are you doing here?” Forbes demanded.

“Investigating, what’s it look like?” Sasha returned, tone sharp. “What are you, anyway? LAPD?”

Evelyn nodded. “Yeah. I’m Sergeant Evelyn Forbes, this is Detective Connor,” she introduced, gesturing him.

“Scared the shit out of me,” Sasha complained.

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t get that a lot in your profession,” Evelyn returned. Then, giving Sasha a vague wave, she asked, “You recording?”

“While I’m on the job? Always,” Sasha confirmed, giving Connor a glance. “You an android?” she asked him.

“Jacket give that away?” he returned dryly, moving to join up with his partner.

She gave him an annoyed look.

“Hey,” Evelyn began, getting Sasha’s attention. She gestured her own eye, saying, “What’s this you’re wearing?”

“Camera/scanner combo,” Sasha told her. “Doesn’t record, but it can take pictures and has a number of visual settings.” 

“Ooh. I should get me one of those,” Evelyn commented.

“Good luck with that, it’s new tech -- just released a couple days ago,” Sasha told her. “Super expensive.” 

That would explain why Connor hadn’t been able to identify it, then. He checked, “What’s it called?”

Giving him a curious look, Sasha answered, “Heimdall Elite. Kinda pretentious, if you ask me.”

He logged that, creating a file for it. It didn’t take but an instant to have it named with all of its identifying markers and logged with all the information he could glean from the internet.

Evelyn commented, “Cool. Now who hired you, and what are you looking for here?”

Sasha gave her a dumb look. “You know I’m under no obligation to answer either of those questions. Gotta protect my clients. You understand,” she said -- not a question.

“Mm,” was Evelyn’s response. She paused then, thoughtful, and Connor was hit with a sense of impatience.

“Why are we waiting?” he asked her.

“Because she’s recording,” Evelyn returned, crossing her arms.

Good point. As long as a private investigator was present and recording, the police were limited in what they could do -- and, given she had active cameras going, what they were  _ willing  _ to do.

Sasha gave them a wave. “You can wait outside. Or just check some other rooms. Don’t let me get in your way.”

“You’re directly in our way, actually,” Evelyn told her.

Shrugging, Sasha said, “I got here first. And you know I can’t take or even move anything. Let me finish up my job, then you can do yours. Deal?”

Evelyn sighed, relenting, and moved back out towards the hall. He kept pace with her, taking stock of the area he hadn’t yet seen. The hall led directly to the front door, the study completely opposite the front door, with more doorways opening to a living room and dining room with a staircase right in the middle of it all.

“Pretty nice place,” he noted.

“Yeah -- I’m not buying it, though,” she commented, glancing around.

Looking towards her, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Lawyers usually get penthouses and mansions, not family homes in suburban neighborhoods,” she explained. “This is tiny and much more familial than his other residence. It doesn’t add up -- I’d bet this was just a show home.”

He could definitely see that, he admitted. Thinking on it, he decided to run a check, searching through what few databases he currently had access to; finding the deed and former owners of this home, he said, “This was Montgomery’s childhood home. He inherited it. Technically, it belongs to his son now, but Henry hasn’t been here in over a decade.”

Nodding, Evelyn worked out, “Then this is more likely his personal office than anything.” She glanced around, thoughtful, before starting to ascend the stairs. “In which case, there’s gotta be something here worth finding,” she was saying.

He trailed behind her, sending a glance down the hall -- checking on Sasha -- as he went. She was still busying herself with her digging, picking up stacks of papers before replacing them and investigating the drawers and bookshelves. Confirming that she was obeying the private investigator restrictions, he left her be.

Four doors sectioned the second floor, he found: two on their left, one on their right, one a few steps ahead. All were open, allowing him to note that the master bedroom was the one furthest to the left with a den of sorts on that side as well. The door to their front was a bathroom, and the one to their right was a spare bedroom.

She was heading for the den as she directed, “No touching anything you don’t have to, and if you move anything, put it right back where you found it.”

He was familiar with the  [P.I. laws](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22883179/chapters/61992595) , so he replied, “I’m more than capable of following the law.”

“A reminder never hurt anyone,” she pointed out.

Fair.

He left her to the den while he headed for the master bedroom and began his search.

It was about as fruitful as searching Helen Baker’s apartment had been, Connor found close to twenty minutes later. He’d looked absolutely everywhere, checking every drawer, examining the walls for hidden compartments, scanning for abnormal power lines, even checking every single article of clothing in the wardrobe and closet.

Nothing significant or noteworthy came to light. His conclusion: either Montgomery had kept all crime-related business out of his home, or he’d kept it out of his bedroom.

Giving up, he checked on Evelyn then, finding her sitting on the floor with a circle of papers around her, clearly having placed them there.

“So much for not touching anything,” he noted, striding in to take a closer look. “What did you find?”

“A pattern,” she explained, starting to gesture certain parts of the papers.

Each one seemed to have a different theme -- some were printed emails, some were excerpts from cases or books, some were collections of notes -- but he saw what she did: a sequence.

Time, date, place, and some kind of key word -- either a noun or an adjective and noun paired together. 5:23pm, November 11th, Donovan’s, red corvette; 2:17am, August 6th, Bookman’s, ATM; 9:02pm, April 27th, Franklin Blvd, yacht; it went on, a total of fourteen clues laid out together.

Impressed, he asked, “How did you notice this?”

“It stood out from the rest,” she answered absently. Then, glancing up at him, she checked, “Do you have all this memorized?”

He nodded. “You should put them back,” he said, but she was already doing so, arranging them almost haphazardly in between a series of other stacks.

Concerned that she might be mixing them up, he said, “I wish you’d gotten my attention before you pulled all those out. I could’ve put them back exactly as they’d been.”

She pulled out her phone. “I took pictures before I removed anything,” she informed him. “But you’re right -- I’m sorry about that. Guess I’m still just used to working alone.”

As she’d been for the last year, he reminded himself. The habits she must have developed from the lack of a partner...he’d definitely have to fight her now and again, if only to remind her that he was there and he could handle himself. She’d already displayed some of that loner mentality, he realized then, despite her visibly trying to include him the rest of the time.

“Not to worry, I’ll help you break those habits,” he teased, “whether you like it or not.”

She smiled at him, and he heard Sasha ascending the stairs then.

To Evelyn, he said, “Our rival is on her way.”

Blowing out a sigh, Forbes nodded. “I think it’s in our best interest to take our leave, then,” she concluded. “Let her do her thing. We can come back later.”

Agreeing, he gestured ahead, directing, “Ladies first.”

The look she gave him, then, was a kind of amused suspicion, like she was surprised by his politeness.

Somewhat offended, he retorted, “What? I’m not allowed to have manners?”

“Nah -- I’m just not used to it,” she explained, heading out. “Excuse us,” she said to Sasha as the P.I. passed her at the landing.

Sasha stepped aside, watching them go. “Y’all done?” she checked.

“For now,” Connor answered. “Good luck on your investigation.”

Eyes narrowing with suspicion, Sasha returned, “You, too.”

Once they were on the road again, Connor noted, “So, she was interesting.”

“You think?” Evelyn prompted, curious. “What makes Sasha Porter so intriguing?”

“For one thing, she was dressed almost identical to you,” he noted.

“I am immediately offended.”

He chuckled, then continued, “For another -- she has blue eyes. That’s exceedingly rare. Most likely, she has European ancestry in her -- and if not, she’s a mutant of the most beautiful variety.”

Smirking, she quipped, “Well, you already sound smitten.”

“I am immediately offended,” he shot back.

Laughing, she said, “Seriously, though, I agree. Those eyes are gorgeous on her. If I were a lesbian, man...” She gave a soft whistle.

With a dry laugh, he pointed out, “You’re married, so you wouldn’t do a damn thing.”

“How dare you crush my hopes and dreams,” she complained.

“Besides which,” he pressed, “she’s a P.I. You’re a cop. You said it yourself: the professions don’t mesh.”

“Sounds like a great premise for a rom-com,” she returned. “Maybe some good drama in there, too. I can see it now:  _ she _ was a detective with LAPD, hard-driven and no-nonsense,” she intoned with a deep, narrative voice. “But while on a case, she crossed paths with a private investigator -- and what they found took them down a path of intrigue, betrayal, and romance--”

“Enough,” Connor laughed, waving her to silence.

Giggling, Evelyn relented. “So,” she prompted, “how about we actually get to work? Can you set up a timeline for those settings?”

Not a problem. He’d organized them by date and put pins in a mental map of where they’d taken place, linking them together, while they’d been talking. He said now, “Already done. It’s...interesting,” he offered.

“How so?”

“The locations are very random,” he explained. “They’re all over the state, not just L.A. I’m thinking they’re most likely related in terms of who or which entities own the areas -- there’s just no pattern to their locations.”

“Unless there’s more locations and we just don’t have that information yet,” she suggested.

Plausible, he admitted. “Maybe. But we should hold off on that until we have more to go on.”

“Agreed. You ready to go digging in a lawyer’s corner office?” she checked.

“More than. Let’s get this done,” he said, feeling more determined by the second. It seemed everything they found on Montgomery only deepened the mystery, rather than unraveling any of it.

It they didn’t find any solid leads after today, he feared it would become an obsession for him, the puzzle too great to ignore. Yet, weirdly, he found himself liking that concept: that he’d find a case he literally couldn’t put to bed.

In a sense, the deviancy case had never been solved, and to a small degree he was still curious about it. But the way things had gone, he’d ceased to care about  _ why _ it’d happened -- it was just a good thing it had. And, to an extent, he didn’t  _ want _ to solve it, either. A part of him felt protective of the mystery, liking keeping it unsolved meant he was protecting his fellow androids.

No, the deviancy case was perfectly fine left cold. But this one -- Montgomery -- was a damn good substitute, drawing his focus and intrigue. He couldn’t wait to see where it went from here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Dashcom = an abbreviation I came up with for “dash computer”, as I assume they’ll be incredibly popular in the near future (especially for government officials, like the police and FBI) and will very likely be referred to as such.


End file.
